


a lion among them

by unpossible



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Stiles, Established Relationship, Fandom Loves Puerto Rico, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, References to Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:52:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 54,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unpossible/pseuds/unpossible
Summary: He knew he’d handled it badly.Not like he knew any other waytohandle this kind of thing, Derek thought, only a little bitter.But Derek had heard the wordEmissarycome out of Scott’s mouth, and had immediately vetoed it with extreme prejudice.It was like hewantedScott to set his jaw and ignore Derek’s input.Honestly.But Stiles- Derek had thought that at the very least,Stileswould listen. That their relationship meant enough that Stiles would hear him out before deciding.Derek had thought wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arsenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



> So this fic is for arsenicarcher, in support of the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico auction. I hope you like it!

 

He knew he’d handled it badly.

Not like he knew any other way _to_ handle this kind of thing, Derek thought, only a little bitter.

If he had _ever_ , once in his life, handled conflict well, then maybe more people would be alive. People like Laura, who had come back to Beacon Hills despite Derek’s pleading. People like Erica and Boyd, who had needed more support than he’d been able to give.

But instead, Derek had heard the word _Emissary_ come out of Scott’s mouth, and had immediately vetoed it with extreme prejudice.

It was like he _wanted_ Scott to set his jaw and ignore Derek’s input. _Honestly_.

But Stiles- Derek had thought that at the very least, _Stiles_ would listen. That their relationship meant enough that Stiles would hear him out before deciding.

Derek had thought wrong.

 

* * *

 

He’d felt the Oath take hold. Isaac wouldn’t notice, nor would the rest of the pack – their instincts weren’t fine-tuned to feel the change. But Derek, as he’d said a million times, was a born wolf, and it wasn’t a fucking competition, _Scott_ , but it did mean that Derek’s control was automatically better, and his instincts were more attuned to some things.

So Derek had stopped, winded, in the middle of sanding back a tabletop, and he’d _known_.

 

 

* * *

 

“Derek?”

The sun had set while Derek had been …busy. He hadn’t even realized he was working in near-darkness, his vision had adjusted as the light levels changed. But. It didn’t say a lot for his mental state that he hadn’t noticed time passing.

The dim light meant that Stiles wouldn’t have seen yet. Derek took a breath and braced himself and in the next second the hallway light flared to life and threw a square of brightness across the bed, Derek, and the half-filled duffel bag.

Stiles paused in the doorway. “What’re you doing in the d-”

The words stopped like his throat had closed over.

Derek turned back for another handful of shirts, the few spare socks at the back of the drawer.  There was a rhythm to the task and he kept his focus on the actual packing, rather than thinking about what it meant.

“What. What are you-”

Derek grabbed his oldest jeans, the last thing left, and closed his eyes rather than look at the bare wood on his side of the drawer.

“No,” Stiles said, whisper soft. “Derek, _no._ ”

He swallowed, yanked the zipper shut and said, “I told you I couldn’t live with it.”

“N-yes, I mean, yeah but,” Stiles said. “But- why are you-”

Derek was across the room before he even knew he was moving. “Did you think I wouldn’t _know?”_ he demanded, one spike of rage making an appearance amongst the numbness.

Stiles swallowed hard, staring helplessly at Derek.

For a moment their eyes locked, then Derek reached between them, fingers sliding beneath the neckline of Stiles’ bat-signal shirt. He lifted the new strip of leather that hung there, the shiny medallion swinging back and forth, innocuous and damning.

“We were still talking about this,” he said softly. “At least, I thought we were. _I haven’t decided anything,_ you told me, just this morning.”

“I hadn’t,” Stiles said, voice shaky.

“So you made a snap decision over lunch, is that it? Those must have been some amazing fucking burgers.”

Stiles swallowed again. “Derek,” he said, pleading. “You gotta understand, the pack needs-”

“What made it so urgent?” Derek cut across him. “At breakfast you hadn’t decided, and now you come home and it’s already done. Oath taken.”

Stiles bit his lip. “It- Scott’s been contacted by the Tuross clan. They’re already on their way here.”

Derek felt the breath whoosh out of his lungs. “Tuross?” he demanded. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

He spun away, feeling the hot prick of his claws at the tips of his fingers. “So you jumped in and signed your life over to the pack without even letting me know because Scott asked you to.”

“Derek, please,” Stiles said. “We can talk about this.”

“We can, can we?” Derek said, brows flying up. “We can fucking _talk_ about it – now that it’s _done_. Now that you’ve gone ahead and done something irreversible, you want to talk about all the ways I’m supposed to just accept it.”

“You knew how important this was to me-”

“And _you_ knew that I couldn’t live with you doing this,” Derek said, flinging his arms out in disbelief. “What the fuck did you think I _meant_ by that, Stiles?”

“Not _this,”_ he said, helpless. He shook his head and gestured angrily at the bag on the bed. “I didn’t think you’d _leave_.”

“Well it’s the only choice I have left, Stiles. I can’t stand here and watch the pack take pieces of you, month after month and year after year. Watch you walk into danger and know I can’t protect you. How am I supposed to sleep beside you every night knowing full fucking well that I come second to the pack’s needs, every damn time?”

“You _don’t_ ,” Stiles cried. “You’re not second- Derek, I love you, you know that.”

“And _this_ is how you show it. By going behind my back and then expecting me to just suck it up and adjust.  What did you do? Calculate how long I was likely to be angry and decide it was worth it in the long run? Jesus, Stiles. I know you’re young, but even you have to see that this was manipulative fucking _bullshit_. This isn’t trust, and it sure as shit isn’t honesty, which is what we promised each other when all of this started.”

Stiles sat down suddenly, all the anger gone at once. “I know.” He buried his face in his hands. “Fuck. I know.”

“You know,” Derek said. “But you did it anyway. And that’s. That’s – I can’t. Be around that, Stiles. Someone with an agenda who works around me- you _know_ I can’t do that.”

“You’re comparing me to her? To _them?_ ” There’s open hurt on his face but for once it didn’t make Derek feel guilty, this time it just _pisses him off_.

“You _went behind my back_ and did the _one_ thing I was afraid of, Stiles. I know your intentions are good but your methods are pretty fucking similar.”

“I didn’t…” Stiles trails off.

Derek took a deep breath and tried for patience. “I know that it’s not easy for you, the way Scott and I are with each other. I get that. But this isn’t the way to deal with it, Stiles.”

“Please don’t leave,” he whispered. “Just. Anything but that. Derek, you’ll be _omega_ -”

Derek sighed, felt his throat thicken, and ran a hand over his face, searching for control. “I cannot stay here,” he said, as calmly as he could. “If I stay, I’ll fight to protect you, and if I do that, I’ve broken pack law. If we break pack law, then every ‘wolf on the West Coast is within their rights to take out the entire pack, not just you and me.”

Stiles blinked at him. “Destroy us? _What?”_

He shook his head. “Either I stay and watch-” he chokes off that line of thought. “Or I go, and hope that me being gone helps things. If other packs can’t smell me on you, if they know I’m out of the picture, you’re less of a target. You’ll have more of a chance.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said, white-faced. “I didn’t-”

“Because Scott won’t ever fucking _listen to me_ when I try to tell all of you this shit,” Derek exploded. “And you never want him to think you’re taking my side, which means you only half-believe what I say.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, numb. His voice sounds awful, and Derek shook his head, suddenly exhausted.

“I know,” he said heavily. “I know you are. Didn’t change anything.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then he steeled himself for the last, terrible part. “You need to get out of this house,” Derek told him, and leaned down to zip up the bag, because he’s a coward and he didn’t want to see Stiles’ face.

“What?”

Derek drew in a breath. “Our scents are too entwined here.” He straightened and turned to face Stiles. All of a sudden his anger was gone, and there was only the hideous sadness of something ending before its time. “You need for my scent to fade, you need to force it to happen, and quickly.”

“I- wh-”

Derek stepped in close. One last indulgence. “Go to your Dad’s. Just – pack a bag and go there tonight. Let someone else pack this place up, don’t come back here. The more my scent fades the safer you’ll be.”

“No,” Stiles said, shook his head, because despite being human he understands the wolf culture shockingly well. He knows the language of scent, of pack, what it means.

“You have to,” Derek said. And he closes his eyes, tried to channel some kind of optimism, some vague hope that this won’t go the way he thought it will. “Because you’re smart, _so_ smart, Stiles. You’re brilliant, and you’re unpredictable, and you’re a survivor and you’re going to make it. I know you are. I _know_ it.”

_Please, please God, Mother Moon, all the powers in the universe protect him. Please._

The tears spilled over and ran down Stiles’ cheek, and Derek reached up to cup his face in careful hands.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered. His hand slid up until his thumb brushed the soft skin behind Derek’s ear, an echo of a thousand careless touched. “Derek, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t under-”

“Ssh, I know,” Derek whispered back, and kissed him, gentle and sweet. Stiles slid his hand into Derek’s hair, his thumb brushing against that spot behind Derek’s ear that always made him shiver, and Derek reached up to cup his hand, bittersweetness washing through him. It shouldn’t have been a trigger but as their lips parted Stiles gasped, heart kicking into overdrive, his scent turning fear-sour as panic surged through his body.

“No,” Stiles gasped, “no, that’s not our last kiss, it’s _not_ -”

“Breathe, breathe, Stiles,” Derek urged, and manhandled him back until his legs hit the mattress and he folded down onto the bed. He pushed the younger man’s head between his knees and flattened his hand over Stiles’ back. Slowly he rubbed in firm circles, still talking, crouched at his side, close.

Stiles clutched at the medallion, white-knuckled and tugging at the cord hard enough for it to cut into his neck. Derek turned his face away from it, unable to bear to look, knowing it won’t come off no matter how much they might wish it undone. Not until the oath was satisfied – either by time, or by sacrifice.

There was a surge of rage at Scott, then at Stiles, and he gritted his teeth through it. There’d be plenty of time to be pissed off about it. Years and years, if Derek is any judge of his own feelings.

“Ssh,” he managed, “shh, Stiles, it’s all right. Just breathe. Breathe through it.”

“What have I done,” Stiles mumbled into his hands, “What have I _done?”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, the title is a reference to an R.M. Drake poem.  
> https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/375276581424287381/

 

 

Derek sat in his car outside the house for a long time, trying not to listen to the sound of Stiles’s misery. He looked down at the phone in his hand, waiting, and finally a text message appeared from the Sheriff. _On my way. Everything all right?_

He let out a long breath, but carefully didn’t look at the house again. The Sheriff would know soon enough everything was not all right, but Derek wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.  Instead he sighed, started the car and drove to Deaton’s. He couldn’t just leave. As furious as he was, there were formalities to observe, and he would honour his family’s legacy and traditions the best he could, while he could.

Deaton answered the knock at the back door of the clinic. “Derek,” he began, then stopped, shock passing over his face before he regained his normal stoic expression. Apparently it only took a glance for him to see what had happened.

 “I need a witness,” Derek said. “Will you Witness?”

Deaton blinked at him, then said heavily, “I will do so.”

Deaton followed in his own car, and the beta was grateful for the solitude. Derek caught an amber light part-way through town, leaving Deaton stuck at the red, and so he pulled up outside Scott’s place alone. For one second he thought about doing the smart thing and waiting for Deaton, then the red wave of temper caught him again. He shoved his door open, stormed up to the stairs.

Scott yanked the door open on the first knock.

“Come to yell?” Scott said, brows raised and arms crossed across his chest. There was veiled triumph in his eyes, and Derek thought suddenly that one way or another they’d been playing this bullshit tug of war since they first met.

Derek stared at Scott, entertaining thoughts of violence against the younger wolf for the first time in a long time. Behind him he heard the crunch of gravel as Deaton braked a little more hastily than normal and jogged toward the house. Scott’s eyes flicked past Derek’s shoulder, brow wrinkling as he took in the second visitor.

Derek took a deep breath and waited, crossing his own arms. The second Deaton’s foot hit the porch, he said, “Alpha. I repudiate this pack.”

Scott blinked at him. “You- what?”

“Derek is informing you of his intent to leave the pack,” Deaton said, voice level and calm. “I am here as his Witness.”

“Leave the pack,” Scott repeats sceptically. His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you were the type for tantrums, Derek. Being a _born wolf_ and all.”

Derek drew in a sharp breath. Seriously, _fuck_ this kid and his mockery.

“Do you accept?” Deaton interceded before this argument could get even more stupid.

“I- what does it mean?” Scott asked, his eyes flicking between Deaton and Derek.

“It means Derek is cutting all ties with this pack, and will be leaving your territory,” Deaton replied.

“Leaving?” Scott said sharply. “Leaving Beacon Hills? But Stiles is-”

He stopped abruptly, as if all the ramifications were hitting him all of a sudden.

“You’re _breaking up with him_ over this? Because he didn’t just fall into li-”

“I’m not here to talk about Stiles,” Derek gritted out. “I’m here to inform you that I’m leaving your pack and your territory. Either accept my decision or challenge it.”

Scott hesitated. “What exactly does that mean?”

Derek bared his teeth in a mean grin, “You’re asking me about werewolf laws and tradition? If you challenge my decision it means you want to force me to stay.” He can feel his eyes glow. “It means we fight.”

Scott frowned at him. “This is seriously all because he didn’t take your advice? Derek, this is a colossal overreaction.”

“Fuck you, Scott,” Derek said pleasantly. “Do you accept my decision or not?”

“If I might remind you, Scott,” Deaton broke in, “You also disregarded _my_ advice on this matter.”

Scott eyed Deaton nervously. “Yeah, but. I mean. Derek obviously put you up to it- I mean, _you_ were an Emissary-”

“I can assure you Derek never spoke to me about this. And my circumstances were vastly different to Mr Stilinski.”

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Scott burst out. “He’ll represent the pack. It’s not that different from what he already-”

“You fucking _moron_ -” Derek began.

“The role of Emissary is an ancient role,” Deaton said at the same time, “and one not to be undertaken lightly. The dangers are many, and the rewards very few.”

“Stiles is a spark,” Scott argued. “He can take care of himself better than you give him credit for.”

“But he can’t defeat a pack of ‘wolves that mean him harm, Scott,” Derek near-shouted.

“Oh fuck you, Derek, you know we’d never let anything happen to him,” Scott retorted.

Gobsmacked, Derek shook his head and turned to look at Deaton, spread his hands as if to say _see what I mean?_

For the first time since he’d started speaking, Deaton looked honestly stunned. “Scott,” he began, breathless from shock. “Surely you read the tract I gave you. Surely you didn’t undertake this oath with Stiles without full understanding of what you were both getting into.”

“I.” Scott hesitated. “I – some of it.”

“Un-be- _fucking_ -lievable,” Derek muttered. His body was shaking with rage.

“I found another book,” Scott threw back at him, defiant. “It outlined the duties of the Emissary, the steps they could take to protect themselves. Stiles is already in danger as a human pack member, this is no different.”

“Except that all of _you_ are now bound by pack law not to intercede to protect him under any circumstances,” Deaton said heavily.

“What?” Scott asked, honestly shocked.

“What is this book you’re speaking of? Where did you get it?”

 “But- _no_. There was no mention of anything like that.”

“Show me,” Deaton said, sounding tired now.

Scott swallowed and motioned them inside.  There was a small red volume on the table, bearing the marks of many years, and he picked it up and offered it to Deaton without meeting either of their eyes. Derek didn’t need to handle the book to know what had happened, he could smell other ‘wolves, strangers, all over the volume. Scott’s heart was pounding hard and heavy now, reality finally hitting.

Deaton opened it, flicked through the first few pages, then sighed. “This seems to be an accurate summary of the Emissary’s role. However it’s much shorter than the version I gave you, Mr McCall, because it leaves out any mention of how the Emissary is to be treated by their pack.”

“You’re saying we’re not supposed to… protect him?” Scott sank down onto the couch. “That _can’t_ be right-”

“The companion volume to this covers that. The laws state only one pack member can accompany him at a meeting,” Deaton said, “and that individual is duty-bound not to interfere. If the other pack attacks the Emissary, the wolf can witness but not intervene. This is the age-old way that war between packs was avoided. The Emissary lives or dies by their own wit and power.”

Scott was pale as a ghost. “No,” he said. “Fuck. _No_.”

“The Emissary is widely regarded as…dispensable by most packs. Generally they come to the job in payment of a large debt, or as punishment for a misdeed. Senior family members often volunteer to take the punishment in the place of someone younger, someone with a longer potential life-span.”

“Let me guess,” Derek said. “The Tuross pack _happened_ to have that volume on hand. They’d heard you didn’t have an Emissary and offered to help you out.”

Scott winced and covered his face with his hands.

Derek watched him for a long moment, torn between frustration and sorrow. He knew Scott loved Stiles. Knew also that Scott would never like Derek, and honestly, the feeling was mutual. And that left them here, standing knee deep in shit.

“Alpha,” Derek said again. He didn’t have time for this.

“I. I accept,” Scott said slowly. He didn’t look up. “You are no longer a member of my pack.”

Derek took a deep breath. For a long moment there was silence, then he said, “You may be a true alpha, Scott. But you can’t afford this kind of impulsive bullshit anymore. Not even to score points off someone you hate.”

Scott looked away, jaw hardening.

Derek shook his head and walked out of the house without another word.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

He was still sitting in the driver’s seat doing some deep breathing when Deaton emerged from the house. Driving angry was a terrible idea for anyone, but especially for a werewolf. Laura had once accidentally ripped the steering wheel out of a car while doing 80mph, and that wasn’t the kind of memory that faded.

“Good luck, Derek.” Deaton gave him a long, level look and climbed into his car. As he drove away Scott stepped out onto the porch and Derek’s hand stilled on his keys.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to leave him,” Scott flung at Derek, voice low, but enough for Derek to hear. “Are you that angry that you wish him dead?”

“Me leaving might be the only chance he _has,”_ Derek growled back. He jumped out and strode toward Scott, fuelled by pure fury. “Why the fuck do you think they’re interested in your pack all of a sudden, you moron?  The Tuross pack has wanted to add to their bloodline for _years_ , and now they’ve found an inexperienced alpha with a born wolf under his command.  It’ll take them ten seconds to smell me on Stiles, ten seconds after that to figure out how to make you bend to their will. Either they’ll kill Stiles as a message, or they’ll demand me in exchange for him, and can you imagine how Stiles would take _that?”_

Scott stared at him, pale and shaken.

“So this is all I can do for him. If I disappear and you can spread the word quick enough, maybe, _maybe_ they’ll just ask for something else, something you can afford to lose.”

At the end of his rope, Derek climbed into the car and put Beacon Hills in his rear view.

 

* * *

 

Life isn’t _bad_.

Derek’s had a lot of experience with bad, okay, and this isn’t it. He’s alone most of the time, and he’s sure as shit not _happy_ , but no-one’s trying to kill him, and that’s worth… at least ten points, right there. The locals don’t even side-eye him for looking shady anymore – not since he’d stuck around through that first, brutal winter. He’s safe. He’s busy. He’s surviving.

There’s a small town nearby and he drives down off the mountain once a week for groceries and mail – custom orders, mostly, and the occasional shipment of something he can’t get in the general store. The locals have finally given up trying to invite him to things, after four years of refusals, but the woman at the post office chats to him without requiring much input, and the clerks in the local stores mostly leave him be.

The worst had been the single woman. He’d cut that in the bud pretty sharply by declaring himself gay, but then that had led to an awkward winter weekend where a local bi-curious college kid had shown up at Derek’s cabin, then gotten snowed in and had to wait it out.

He hadn’t had any gay come-ons in the three years since. It’s Montana, after all, not San Francisco. He hears mutterings sometimes, but no-one ever actually does anything, probably because he still looks like he could bench-press one of their prize steers, and there’s a couple of morons whose knees haven’t healed right after they ‘ran into’ Derek at a local bar. Though the kid, Terry, had actually turned out to be okay. The rest of the town had been convinced they’d had a weekend of flaming passion, and it really wouldn’t have mattered how much they’d tried to deny it, people had made up their minds.

In the end, Terry offered to keep his mouth shut and let people assume the two of them had some kind of friends-with-benefits arrangement. A bemused Derek agreed, and now the kid dropped by at least once every time he came home on break. He was usually laden with some box set of a TV show Derek had no interest in seeing, but ended up watching anyway out of sheer boredom.

The winters were long in Montana.

 

* * *

 

Technically, he’s become omega. Derek didn’t feel the pack ties anymore, not since he left Beacon Hills.

He still has his anchor, though, painful as it might be, and so he’s not in any danger of losing control. He’s the only werewolf for a hundred miles or more, so there’s no territory issue to spark his instincts and fuck things up. He’s coping.

 

* * *

 

In the warmer seasons Derek loaded up the truck once a month and drove into the nearest large city to drop off his work. He’d started out selling at local markets, but since that was a little too much human contact for Derek’s liking, he’d outsourced that after six months to the tiny woman who sold leadlight glasswork at the stall next to his.  Maureen consistently sold his furniture for ten percent over what Derek ever asked, and now that he was getting a reputation it was more like thirty percent. Their stuff looked good together – his huge, heavy tables and benches next to her minimalist geometric lamps and mirrors, and her husband was twice the size of Derek and could help her with the loading and unloading.

Once a month was also how often Derek turned on the phone that lived in the top drawer of his bedside table. It travelled with him on the drive down out of the mountains, picking up signal twenty minutes from Derek’s gate.  More often than not it rang during the drive, and the Sheriff’s voice would give Derek the twin sensations of sharp grief and even sharper relief.

It had started with one letter, sent six weeks after Derek left.

_I misused police resources to find you, and I’m not proud of it.  If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you want me to break all contact._

Derek had stared at the letter for weeks on end.  It was torture, the idea of hearing from home, but then, he was torturing himself every day anyway. What was the difference, really? At least this way he’d know when-

He’d know.

So on one of his trips to the city he’d bought a burner phone and written the number and the date of next months’ market day trip on a postcard and mailed it to the Sheriff’s Department in Beacon Hills. 

 

 

The older man didn’t mention Stiles directly. That was something they’d never had to negotiate. Instead the Sheriff talked about life in Beacon Hills in general. Towards the end of the call his tone would change slightly and he’d start saying things like, _it’s been pretty quiet_ , or, _we had some visitors pass through but they didn’t stay long_ , and Derek knows those are the closest things he’ll get to news of Stiles.

Once, his voice had been low and strained and the Sheriff had struggled to say anything at all. Derek had pulled over and sat, head in his hands, waiting for something, and finally the older man had said, _we had a bit of a tricky situation. Everything’s – okay._

That day Derek had driven into the city, dropped off his shipment and then gone to the nearest bar. It had taken dedication, but he’d gotten drunk enough that when he started a bar fight he was actually in some trouble for the last part of it, uncoordinated and sloppy and blind with rage.

He’d woken up the next morning slumped against a dumpster out the back of a completely different bar, with no memory of how he’d gotten there and bloodstains on his shirt. He’d had to jog three miles back to his truck, which he’d only been able to locate by scent.

Sometimes he dreams ugly, twisted dreams where Stiles is baited and mocked by a series of packs, slowly turning from the man Derek knew to a subdued, hypervigilant version of himself. Sometimes he dreams of waking up in their bed again, but when he turns to kiss Stiles he can barely recognise the younger man through the scars and the fear in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Derek has a landline. Whoever had built the cabin had gone to the expense of running a phone line up from the highway, and while he’d hesitated over getting it connected, he’d eventually admitted it was pretty much a necessity, living so far out. Derek can survive most things, obviously, but there’s always the chance of wildfires, or hikers lost in the woods. There’s no cell phone coverage on most of the mountain, so a landline is… the smart choice.

The phone rang one Tuesday morning when Derek was just starting to chop wood for his winter stockpile. It was probably the first phone call he’d had in two months, but Terry sometimes called to check if he should bring anything with him when he drove up the mountain, and the townfolk occasionally called to let Derek know about some likely timber he could come and collect, that someone’s cows were out on a nearby road, or that a bridge had washed out after a storm.

It wasn’t until he was already lifting the receiver that his whole body went cold and he just _knew_.

He didn’t say hello. Just held the phone to his ear and breathed.

The person at the other end was silent too, but Derek could hear the breathing, unsteady.

Derek lowered himself to the floor, the curly cord stretching over his shoulder to the handset on the wall. “Tell me,” he said, and his voice was devoid of all emotion.

There was a choked sound, then the Sheriff said, “He’s – he’s alive, Derek. He’s alive.”

The shock was so great Derek folded up in self-defence - one arm wrapped hard around his stomach, head pressed to the floor, skin prickling all over with fear sweat.  _StilesStilesStiles_

“But he’s. Sick.”

 _Dying_ , Derek thought. Dancing amber eyes and a sly smirk. _Gone_.

“He, Deaton said there’s a chance he could recover, it was poison of some kind.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

“He’s. Hallucinating.” Every word emerged like a heavy stone from the Sheriff’s mouth. “Feverish. He. He’s asking for you.”

Derek lifted his head. “What?”

“He can’t- he didn’t remember anything before the Oath. The poison, whatever it was, it’s wiped away every part of the Emissary years. He just remembers that you two were fighting.”

“I _can’t.”_ Derek said. He didn’t even pretend to misunderstand what the Sheriff is asking. “It’ll just make things worse.”

“Derek, he’s – the poison is making him imagine. Terrible things.” The Sheriff swallowed audibly, gaining momentum as he spoke. “His fever spikes every time he wakes up and sees you’re not around. He didn’t remember what we’ve told him from one outburst to the next, so even a convincing lie that you’re driving back from the next town over isn’t doing any good. Deaton thought seeing you might be his only chance.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter and put a hand over his mouth to hold in the scream that wanted to escape.

“Will you come?”

Derek closed his eyes. It’s not even a question. Of course he’ll come. “It’ll take me-”

“Parrish knows someone in Idaho with a light plane. He’s calling in a favour. The guy can get to Hanover airfield in two hours.”

“I’ll be there,” Derek said, and hung up.

 

 

It wasn’t until Derek was on the plane that he thought to wonder where they’d go. The pilot, a chatty type, let him know they’d be landing in Redding and there’d be a car waiting for him there. After about three futile attempts to start a conversation he subsided and left Derek to his -thoughts, which were pretty freaking bleak.

Isaac was waiting at the fenceline, and Derek ran to the car with only a hurried “Thanks,” for the pilot.

“How is he?” Derek said, slinging his bag into the trunk.

“The same,” the beta replied, face grim.

Isaac tried to start conversation once or twice. Derek responded as best he could, but his head was such a jumble he could barely keep up at all.

“So you’re still making furniture?”

“Mm-hm,” Derek nodded, fingers tapping on his leg. “Custom orders, sometimes. Keeps me busy.”

Isaac made a _hm, that’s interesting_ kind of noise in his throat.

Miles and miles went by before Derek thought to say, “And what about you? What are you doing?”

“I um. Yeah, I actually run a nursery – like, a plant nursery.”

“Huh,” Derek said, nodding. “That’s… you like it?”

“I really do,” Isaac said. “I can work outside as much as I need to, but I’m using my brain as well, managing staff, doing the business side of things. Yeah. It’s. Good.”

“I’m glad,” Derek said, and found he meant it.

“Things have been. Uh. Quieter. Supernaturally speaking,” Isaac started, voice tentative. “Like, we meet other packs but it’s not- um.”

“War?” Derek said, voice grim.

“Yeah,” he replied, subdued. “It’s not like it was in high school.” He was trying to offer comfort, Derek could tell, and he resisted the bubbling temper that made him want to snap at anyone and everyone.

“It should never have been like it was when you were in high school,” Derek said after a long moment. He let out a slow sigh. “That was never how life was supposed to be.”

Isaac nodded slowly. “Yeah.” There was a long pause, then he said, “I guess I’m just trying to say it- you know. He’s done well.” Derek heard him swallow before he said, “Stiles. He’s… handled things.”

“I never had any doubt about Stiles’s intelligence or ability, Isaac,” Derek said tersely, all thoughts of playing nice gone. “But no matter how smart he is or how talented, we’re still here, aren’t we?”

That shut the beta up, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

On the outskirts of town Isaac licked his lips and said quietly, “He’s delirious. Some of the stuff he talks about did actually happen in the past few years, but some of it didn’t. Deaton thought the poison is purging his memory so he’s probably processing a mixture of actual events, and uh.” He swallowed again. “Dreams, most likely. Is our best guess for the – other stuff.”

He turned off the highway onto a country road. Derek had the vague thought that they weren’t all that far from his old home, if you could cut through the woods in a straight line.

“It’ll be hard to hear, is what I’m saying.”

Derek managed a nod. “Thanks.”

Isaac sighed unhappily and slowed the car.  He pulled up outside a small cottage on the edge of the woods and Derek flung himself out of the car. He could hear Stiles from the street, the indistinct rumble of his voice in distress, the overlapping sounds of two other voices trying for calm and missing by a mile.

Derek ran into the house and past startled faces, some familiar and some strange, ignoring everything but the sound and scent of Stiles in a room at the back of the house.

Stiles’s scent hit him first, sour-sweet and with a foreign note Derek immediately hated.

“Stiles,” Derek said, catching himself in the doorway and belatedly realizing he needed to calm the fuck down before he threw himself into this situation. On either side of the bed stood Scott and the Sheriff. The older man let out a huge relieved breath, while Scott simply straightened, his hand still pressing Stiles firmly back onto the bed.

Stiles was sobbing, unbound and irrational, hands grasping hungrily at Derek even as he wept. “You were gone,” he choked out. “Derek, don’t leave me.”

“It’s okay,” Derek managed, “I’m here. See? I’m here.” He moved forward, brushed past Scott without a word and hitched a knee up onto the bed, hand outstretched. He swallowed hard.

“No,” Stiles said, and swung his head in a stubborn shake, eyeing Derek’s hand like he’s afraid of it. “No, I’ve, I keep waking up and you’re gone, and they couldn’t – I lost you, I know I lost you and now I’m dreaming- the snakes will come back and-”

“Hey,” Derek tried. “Hey.” He gave up trying to reason with words, they’d never been his strong point. Instead he slid closer, captured one of Stiles’s hands and brought it up to his jaw. Flexing his own fingers around Stiles’s, Derek guided him close until one thumb pressed against the spot just behind Derek’s ear. “Remember this?” he murmured. “Stiles? Remember?”

Stiles’s thumb moved instinctively, that tiny rub he used to do on drowsy Sunday mornings, talking quietly under the blankets, limbs tangled. Derek felt tears spring to his eyes and suddenly remembered their audience. “Go away,” he said, turning his head just a little so they’d know he was talking to them.

“Uh,” Scott began, and that was just it.

“Fuck. _Off_. Scott,” Derek growled, and his eyes flashed without any input from his brain.

Stiles let out a miserable sounding laugh. “Right. Maybe this is real. I remember _that_ tone of voice.”

Derek’s head swung back to Stiles but he waited until he heard the door close before he let himself press his lips against the sweat-tousled hair.

“I’m here,” he said, very softly. “Stiles, I promise you, I swear it, I’m here.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Sometime later, Stiles drifted into sleep. It still wasn’t restful or deep, but it was better than the bursts of panic that sent his heart thundering into overtime, the babblings of fear and despair and frustration that tore at Derek’s heart to hear.

He waited, slid gently away from Stiles, waited again, then sidled completely free of the younger man’s grasp.  Still, Derek waited until he was sure Stiles wouldn’t stir, and then he let himself out of the room.

The living room of the house was only a few steps away from the bedroom. Gathered there was what was probably the majority of the pack, plus the Sheriff. Everyone sprang to their feet as Derek walked in, then  most of them sheepishly sank back into their seats as they realized there was really nothing to do and nowhere to go.

One man remained standing, his gaze fixed on Derek. After a moment his eyes flicked to Scott and the stranger gave a jerk of the head the alpha seemed to understand. Scott nodded to the man and he slipped quietly out of the room, through the kitchen and out of the cottage. When Derek refocused his gaze on Scott the alpha was staring at the empty doorway, his mouth curved in a soft, sad line.

“Derek,” the Sheriff said, stepping close. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Derek said, but accepted the handshake anyway. Then he took a deep breath and then turned his head. “Alpha,” he began formally, “I am request-”

“Jesus, Derek,” Scott said, shaking his head. “Don’t-”

Derek could feel his back stiffen, saw the rest of the pack react to his body language, heard the Sheriff’s tired sigh.

 _“Shit,”_ Scott said softly, and passed a hand over his face. “What I mean is, you’re always welcome in our pack’s territory, Derek. There’s no need to stand on formality with us.”

“Thank you.” Derek said, after a moment. If Scott was going to try, he could try too. He hesitated for a second, then said, “Can I ask, why the audience?” He gestured at the full room.

Scott looked around blankly. “It’s – the pack,” he said. “We’re worried about him.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Derek said. “But. There’s nothing they can do, right?”

The Sheriff sighed again. “No. there’s really not much anyone can do, according to Deaton.”

“They have the right to be here,” Scott said, and his tone is level and controlled, but there’s no mistaking that he didn’t like Derek’s topic. There was an unmistakable warning edge to his voice when he added, “They care about Stiles.”

“I’m sure they do,” Derek replied. “My point is that if it was _you_ in that room, and you were babbling all your worst fears and secrets and terrors, would you appreciate an entire houseful of people sitting around listening to it?”

There was a pause, and Scott glanced away.

“I don’t mean any offence,” Derek added, glancing around. One or two of the pack are eyeing him with dislike but Isaac is nodding. “I’m sure you all mean well. But I think anyone would appreciate some privacy in that situation. He can sense you’re all here, and it’s stressing him out.”

“I did suggest that back when this started,” the Sheriff said, looking pointedly at Scott.

“Yeah, okay,” Scott replied. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and for the first time Derek realized how exhausted he looked. “Look, everyone take a break. You can still visit if you want, one at a time, but call me or the Sheriff before you come over, okay?”

The pack filed out in relative quiet, and Derek carefully didn’t watch the little touched that flowed so naturally between connected wolves. He missed pack, jeez, he missed just having the luxury of human touch.

About a year and a half ago Terry had gotten bold enough to ignore Derek’s scowls, and hugged him at each visit. But apart from those brief interludes, the Sheriff’s handshake was the first human touch Derek had felt in over a year.

There was an awkward silence once it was just Scott, the Sheriff and Derek.

“Are you, uh. Hungry?” the Sheriff asked.

Derek started to shake his head.

“Derek,” the older man said. “Take my advice. Eat while he’s resting. You’re going to need your energy.”

“I- yeah,” he said, helpless before the older man’s level gaze and compassion. “Okay. I could eat.”

The two of them headed back to the kitchen, leaving Scott scowling down at his phone.

“Thank you for coming,” the Sheriff said, watching some leftover noodles go round and round in the microwave.

“You already said that,” Derek pointed out.

“And I’ll keep on saying it until it’s no longer necessary.”

Derek felt a faint smile touch his face. Then he sighed. “How long since…”

“Two days.”

Derek bit his lip and nodded.

“I didn’t find out until yesterday,” the Sheriff added. The microwave dinged and he slid the bowl in front of Derek.

“They didn’t tell you?” Derek asked, frowning. He picked up the fork.

“Stiles has a firm policy of not telling me when he gets hurt unless it’s absolutely unavoidable,” the Sheriff said, his voice flat and angry. “The pack honours that.”

Derek lowered the fork, but the Sheriff shook his head and tapped the back of Derek’s hand warningly. “Eat,” he said. “You look like hell.”

Derek started eating, and thinking back realized that he hadn’t eaten anything since the phone had rung that morning. He began to eat. “So… last year,” he said. “He was hurt, right?”

The Sheriff’s mouth flattened out. “The Hellyer pack,” he said.

Derek sank back against the chair, his eyes closing. “Which ones?”

The older man eyed him narrowly. “You know them.”

“As kids,” Derek answered bleakly. “Who was it?”

“Tyrone.”

Derek bowed his head and focused all his willpower on not wolfing out. The fork in his hand bent, but he counted it a good outcome that nothing worse happened.  “I fucking hate that guy,” he managed.

“You’re not alone,” Scott said from the doorway.

“What did he do?”

“Tried to go through Stiles to get to us,” Scott said. “Took a chunk out of Stiles but didn’t get what he wanted.”

“And this?” Derek gestured toward the back room. “Who was this?”

“Not sure,” Scott said, frowning.

 “No-one _accompanied_ him?” That seems like unbelievable complacency to Derek.

Scott sighed. “I wasn’t here. Isaac has a distant cousin who finally got in touch. I went with him to meet them.”

“So… there was no planned meeting?” Even if another pack had initiated contact, there would have been no arrangements with the alpha unavailable.

“Nope.”

Derek frowned.

“This trip of yours,” the Sheriff said from the kitchen doorway, “it was pretty spur of the moment, right?”

“Yeah,” Scott turned, startled. “Uh. The cousin called on Thursday, Isaac told me Friday afternoon and we jumped in the car and drove down there about two hours later.”

“So whoever approached Stiles, and presumably wanted to get him alone, they _happened_ to do it on a weekend when his Alpha and second were unexpectedly gone?” The Sheriff folds his arms, all cop now.

“You think someone in the pack gave out that information,” Derek said.

“No,” Scott said immediately, automatically.

Derek said nothing. His track history of arguing with Scott was - not good. He watched instead as Scott met the Sheriff’s eyes, and some kind of wordless argument went on. In the end, Scott dropped his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face.

“They wouldn’t,” he said weakly.

“Can’t hurt to ask,” Derek said.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Over the two days or so they casually asked each visiting pack member one question, and got the same answer. None of them had seen Stiles after lunch time on Saturday. Liam had found him, sick and feverish, in the woods on Saturday night.

 

 

 

“So were you with Stiles at all on Saturday?”

Before Otis even opened his mouth Derek could tell he was going to be an asshole. Call it long exposure to Peter, but he was already braced.

“Man, you know sometimes Stiles didn’t tell anyone where he’s going.” A nasty smirk crossed the guy’s face and he added, “‘Course, that’s usually because he’s planning to head out to Jungle to suck off anyone who asked him, but-”

“Is that supposed to trigger some kind of blood rage?” Derek interrupted. He even managed to sound amused.

Otis blinked, taken aback.

“I mean, that’s what you were hoping for, right? That I’d lose my shit and go for your throat and then none of us would notice that you avoided answering the question?”

“I wondered if you boys caught that,” the Sheriff murmured. His eyes were hard and his hand was on his weapon.

Otis swallowed and his eyes flew from Scott to the Sheriff and back again.

“Jesus, Scott,” Derek said, shaking his head. “What the hell have you been _telling_ these guys about me? I mean I never expected you to paint a flattering picture but did you tell them I had no brains at _all?”_

“You- you’re not-” Otis stammered.

Derek sighed and folded his arms for the most matter-of-fact look possible. “Look, starshine, it’s not like I was away from my loving husband for one weekend and came back to betrayal and lies. I don’t know how it works in your universe, but Stiles and I broke up over four years ago. _Broke. Up_ ,” he added, extra slow to help the concept sink in. “Four. _Years_.”

“Also? I left town, and we’ve had no contact since then. Maybe you’ve read too much _Twilight_ , I don’t know, but I’d have to be a complete fucking moron to expect that my ex has remained untouched when he was a) single, and b) did I mention it’s been _four_ fucking _years_.”

“No, Derek,” Scott said, staring hard at his nervous packmate. “You’re not the complete fucking moron here.”

“What’s really interesting to me is that Otis here was prepared not only to be beaten up by Derek,” the Sheriff began, his tone conversational and fooling no-one at all, “but he was also prepared to embarrass his alpha-”

“-in front of an outsider-” Derek added.

“- _and_ to piss off the Sheriff of the small town he lives in.” The Sheriff let that sit for a moment, and then he smiled very gently, “All to avoid answering the very simple question of whether or not you saw my son on the day he was hurt.”

There was a second of frozen silence, and then Otis flung himself toward the door. He was fast, but Derek was faster, fuelled by pent-up rage and years of frustration. Derek leaped, crashing straight into the younger wolf and let his weight bear Otis to the floor. It was almost like roughhousing with his family the way he’d done as a kid, aware that you might hurt yourself a bit but that you’d heal soon enough. And right now Derek didn’t give a shit about who got hurt, himself included.

Which was why he let his body curl up as he dropped, so he would crash, knees first, onto Otis’ ribcage. There was a nasty crunch, and then a gurgle of shocked pain from the other wolf, who immediately began to struggle for breath. Derek reached around slowly, wincing, to draw out Otis’ claws from the soft flesh of his flanks. The asshole had gone for his kidneys.

“That looks painful, Otis,” Scott said calmly. He moved from where he’d stationed himself at the front door of the cottage, to stand by Derek’s side staring down at his pack member. “But not as painful as it’s going to get if you don’t start answering questions.”

The Sheriff stepped up to flank Derek on the other side. “Did you think my son was expendable?” he asked. Derek almost flinched at that word, and Scott shifted minutely. “Because it maybe didn’t occur to you until now, but he’s precious to all three of us, and so now you’ve pissed off two werewolves and one Sheriff with access to wolfsbane.”

Otis was struggling to breathe, staring up at the three faces above him with naked panic.

With a grimace of disgust, Derek pushed off Otis’s chest until he could stand, one foot either side of the wolf’s body. “We can make it hurt worse, or we can let you heal,” he said coldly. “If I were you I’d start talking right. Fucking. _Now.”_

Otis shook his head minutely, but before he could say anything Scott was addressing Derek, casual and conversational, “I told you Deaton was working on something, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek grunted, never taking his eyes off Otis. He gave the ribs a hard nudge with his boot and Otis gasped.

“He’d gone to try and source some of whatever it is they shot Stiles up with. He called last night to say he’s got a sample, and he’ll be here by lunchtime.”

Derek grunted.

“But right now what I’m wondering,” Scott said, voice suddenly hard, “is what that substance would do to a werewolf.”

“Wouldn’t you have to lace it with wolfsbane?” the Sheriff asked, conversational.

“Most likely,” Scott agreed. “Or mistletoe, maybe. Mistletoe might work.”

“That would really be something to see,” Derek said, watching the panic run over Otis’ face. “Considering how fast werewolf metabolisms work, I’d say the fever would pretty much chew through this asshat in about a day and a half.”

“We’d have to put him on a drip, I think,” Scott said, thoughtful now. “Keep it running into his veins over an extended period.”

“But he’d be babbling all his darkest secrets within the first half-hour,” the Sheriff said. “Seems like efficient time management to me.”

“Don’t,” Otis choked out. “Not that.”

Derek felt his lip curl. “You fucking _disgrace_ ,” he snarled. “You just sat out here listening to _Stiles_ go through it-” and all of a sudden all the anger he’d been holding back just swept through him. It was the images of Stiles passing himself around at Jungle like he isn’t precious and perfect, tangled with the reality of Stiles in the next room, choking on terror both real and imagined. Derek let out a frustrated growl and flung himself down on the other wolf, claws just barely missing the vulnerable throat. _No_ , he snarled wordlessly, straining against Scott’s tight grip. The alpha was chanting something-

“-need to know who did this, Derek, keep it together.”

“-fucking _coward,”_ Derek snarls, straining toward Otis. “Worthless piece of _shit.”_

“Yeah, he is,” Scott ground out, breath coming fast as they struggled. “And he’s going to get what’s coming to him but I need for you to pull yourself together right now, can you do that? For Stiles?”

Derek managed to land a solid kick to Otis’ hip, flipping him over, and then the Sheriff was there, right up in Derek’s space, crazy reckless like his son, like _Stiles_. “Listen to me,” he said, “Son, I need you to calm down. Because if Scott and I have to focus on you, this piece of crap,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “is going to get a chance to escape. He’s hurt right now, but he’s already started healing. So get your head on straight, Derek. _Right now._ ”

Derek let out a shuddering breath, and met the Sheriff’s eyes.

Whatever the older man saw there had him nodding. He reached out a hand and laid it on Derek’s shoulder, no fear at all. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” Derek managed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good.” He turned his head to look at Otis, who had rolled onto his side but was trying to struggle up to his hands and knees. The Sheriff was right, the worst of the broken ribs were beginning to heal, and soon the younger wolf would be feeling ready to try another escape.

“Get him,” Derek said to Scott. The alpha ran a wary eye over Derek’s face, then nodded once, released his grip and stepped over to his beta.

Scott took Otis by the throat with one clawed hand and stuck a knee in the centre of his back, weight pressing carefully on half-healed ribs. “There’s chains in the basement,” he said, to no-one in particular.

“I’ll go,” Derek said, anxious to get some distance between himself and Otis. He could barely hold himself back right now, logic or no.

He found the chains, and the oversized D-bolts that had been concreted into the floor and walls. Typical Stiles, thinking ahead to contingencies, Derek thought with a twist of grief.

Scott restrained Otis on his own, and then pushed the younger wolf down the stairs, none too gently. When Otis was safely shackled to the restraint points, the alpha stood front and centre, arms crossed, and said, “Start talking.”

Resentful, Otis opened his mouth only to freeze when Scott said evenly, “And bear in mind if you plan on talking any trash about Stiles, or anyone in this room, I will walk up those stairs and tune out the sound of whatever happens to you in here. You didn’t just betray Stiles, you betrayed me and my pack, and I have no interest in anything you want to say except for who did this to Stiles and how they did it. If we can’t get that from you then you are useless to us, and we can move straight on to punishment for your crime.”

“Start with who,” the Sheriff suggested, stepping up to Scott’s side.

Otis swallowed. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Tell us who did this and we’ll see,” Scott replied.

There was a long silence. Then he said, low, “Tyrone.”

“Hellyer,” Derek said. He’d wedged himself into a corner of the basement, as far from Otis as he could get. He wasn’t sorry, exactly, about his loss of control, but it was dangerous, and he owed Stiles and the Sheriff better than that. Maybe Scott, too, after today.

Tyrone Hellyer. Derek wished he felt more surprised.

Scott drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Keep talking.”

“He, uh. Heard something. About…” Otis flicked a glance toward Derek, then away again.

“Heard Stiles and I used to be together,” Derek supplied.

Otis nodded.

 Scott frowned, and shifted slightly so that he could see Derek as well as Otis. “You and Tyrone have a history?”

“We knew each other as kids,” Derek said shortly. “Hated each other’s guts. He was a bully, and, looking back, was showing real signs of being a sadistic asshole too boot.”

“Awesome,” Scott said flatly, then sighed.

“Keep talking,” the Sheriff suggested.

“He wanted.” Otis swallowed. “To send a message.”

Derek closes his eyes. This is what he’s been afraid of. All this time. And now he has to stand here and listen to a plan to dismantle Stiles down to nothing. Has to stand here knowing all the while that Stiles is suffering upstairs in a bed Derek has never shared, will never share.

 

 

 

 

 

Hours later, Derek had soothed Stiles back to sleep once more, and he walked wearily out through the living room, the kitchen, to the back door. He hesitated on the threshold, then shrugged and stepped out into the back yard.

The tall stranger who had left early on the first day of Derek’s arrival was standing by the back fence.

“We haven’t been introduced,” Derek said.

The other man snorted. “You don’t need any introduction,” he said. His voice was low and deep, tinged with a bitter edge. “You’re like the bogeyman in Beacon Hills. Bluebeard’s wife. Everyone knows about Derek Hale and no-one ever talks about him.”

Derek let out a long, slow sigh.

“I’m Ned.”

Derek nodded at him. He had a pretty good idea why the other man was here, but he won’t ask.

The silence stretched out long between them.

“We were together for nearly two years,” Ned said eventually. His mouth twisted. “Almost two years of him keeping me at arms’ length, never letting me all the way in.”

Derek set his jaw.

“God, I got so freakin’ paranoid,” he went on. “Wondering what the hell he was hiding. Was he cheating, was he in the closet… It was hard enough to try and integrate into this tight-knit circle of friends – or at least that was how it looked to me then, from the outside.”

Derek blinked and flicked a quick glance at the guy. “You didn’t know? About the pack?”

Ned smiled without mirth. “I told you. Arm’s length.”

More silence. Then he sighed. “And then it all blew up right in front of me. Werewolf showdown practically in my front yard.”

Now it was Derek’s turn for a mirthless laugh. “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah.” Ned shrugged. “So then I’m dealing with finding out that there’s a whole supernatural universe out there I didn’t know about, _and_ getting dumped by my boyfriend.”

Derek went still.

It took a long time, but finally he looked up, to find Ned watching him intently. “Yeah,” the younger man said. “It was over the minute I found out about his real life.”

Derek eyed him. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

Ned snorted. “Nothing to say. I just,” he shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you, just once I guess. It took me way too long to figure out that I was the third wheel in the relationship.” He stared down at his feet. “Like I said, no-one talks about you.”

Derek folded his arms. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I haven’t even spoken to Stiles or anyone else in the pack for years.”

“Oh I know _that_ ,” he replied. “But I also know that there was no chance of Stiles ever settling down with anyone else as long as you’re still walking around on God’s green earth. I’m honestly not sure if he’s punishing himself, or if he just can’t even picture being happy with anyone that isn’t you. Hardly matters, really,” Ned shrugged. “The result is still the same. He won’t let anyone in, and he won’t discuss it.”

Derek looked away, out into the night. What was he supposed to feel, here? Was he supposed to be glad that Stiles was maybe pining for Derek, the way Derek was for him? What the hell did it _fix?_

Ned sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if this is stirring up more shit for you.”

Derek slanted him an ironic glance.

He raised his hands, palm out. “No, honestly. I didn’t – I just wanted to talk to you. You know, without the whole pack listening in. It hasn’t been – easy, integrating into the pack and at the same time my ex is… well. Sometimes it felt like he’s just _everywhere_.” He hesitated. “I- you seem like a nice guy. I suppose I – I’d like to be forewarned, I guess, if you’re going to come b-”

“I’m not,” Derek broke in, voice harsh. “Nothing’s changed.”

God, things were as big a mess as ever. Here he was, waiting to hear if Stiles would recover from yet another attack.

Fucking _nothing_ had changed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

  

Derek’s presence wasn’t some kind of literal magical cure, unfortunately. It calmed Stiles, which brought down his blood pressure and stress levels, but the fever remained, and each time it built it took a little more out of the younger man. His memory loss continued, as did the nightmares.

Derek and the Sheriff spent two days wrapping Stiles in cool, damp cloths and spooning ice chips into his mouth, two days trudging back and forth loading sweat-damp sheets into the washer and re-making the bed.

Isaac and the others were regular visitors, bringing food and a general scent of worry and grief, which didn’t exactly help. Scott made himself scarce, which Derek assumed was the Sheriff’s doing. Although more likely he was making plans for retaliating against the Tuross clan, and deciding what to do about Otis.

He was grateful enough not to ask about it.

On the eighth day, the fever broke.

 

 

 

 

 

“How long were you going to keep it up?”

Derek went still. Every part of him wanted to run. Every part of him wanted to wrap Stiles up in his arms. “As long as necessary,” he finally said. He lifted his head from where he’d been half-dozing in the chair, and looked over at the bed.

Stiles huffed out a mirthless laugh. There was silence, then he said, “So how did it go – Dad called you and you just came running?”

He hesitated, then said, “You knew he had my number?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, voice flat. “He’s not as stealthy as he thinks he is and I could give paranoia lessons to the CIA at this point.”

Derek didn’t reply to that. He wasn’t here to cause trouble between Stiles and his father. It seemed safer to steer the conversation in another direction. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling exhausted in every part of his body. “You’re feeling better?”

Another chuff of black laughter. “Better. I guess you could say that. My brain didn’t feel like it’s baking inside my skull and I’m not seeing snakes and monsters anymore.”

“Good,” Derek said. “That’s. Good.”

He hadn’t thought about this part of things. Which seems dumb, now, in hindsight. But terror and worry tend to swell up and fill all the available spaces in the heart and mind, and the only kind of projecting into the future Derek had been able to manage had been the _what if he doesn’t get better, what if he has brain damage_ , _what if he never remembers_ kind.

In the dark, guilty recesses of his mind Derek had almost _wished-_

“So I’m pretty sure I don’t remember everything,” Stiles said, still in that same flat tone. He didn’t smell embarrassed, exactly. Maybe he was still too exhausted for that. He’d lost a lot of weight, between the fevers and the lack of appetite. “But there’s enough to know that I pretty much went the full gothic heroine on you, with the screaming and the hallucinations and the swooning in your arms.”

“No creepy tower or deserted moors,” Derek said.

“I think our lives have enough supernatural elements to satisfy the gothic canon,” Stiles replied, a ghost of his old humour there. “And you’re avoiding answering me, which is, historically, never a good sign.”

“You were pretty far gone with fever,” Derek said. “A lot of nightmares. Nothing embarrassing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I may not be a werewolf,” Stiles said, “but I’m pretty sure that’s one huge fucking lie.”

“You’d forgotten I ever left,” Derek said, suddenly tired. “You wanted your boyfriend. Simple as that.”

That got him silence. Merciful silence. Except no, because silence just meant that Stiles was thinking.

“Shit,” Stiles said. “So I was- that was real, then. The-” he hesitated.

“Yes,” Derek said, trying for lighthearted. “We snuggled. It was awful.”

Stiles met his eyes dead on, and Derek had to look away. They sat in silence for ten seconds or so and then Stiles sighed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you always used to say that,” Stiles said softly. “It was never true then either,” he added and neither of them spoke for a long time.

 

 

 

 

“So I guess you’re keen to get back.”

Derek’s brows flicked up involuntarily.  There was an edge to Stiles’s tone he couldn’t quite interpret. He turned and rested a hip against the kitchen bench, arms crossed.

“No doubt you’re being missed at home.”

“I- what?”

Stiles turned his head and cast a dark, bitter glance Derek’s way. “Your little fucking _twink_ , Derek.”

For a moment he just stared blankly. Then realization dawned and he said, _“Terry?”_  Voice rising, incredulous.

“Sure. Fucking _Terry_.” Stiles gave a little headshake, a nasty snort of laughter. He pushed the bowl of soup away, turned away in his chair, then swung back as if he couldn’t help himself. _“Seriously_ , though? _Another_ fucking teenager?”

“Terry turned twenty-three last year,” Derek said stupidly. Then blinked, catching himself. “And I’m not-”

“Please don’t feed me any bullshit about how you’re not involved with him. I’m not the trusting moron I once was.”

Derek reared back, shocked at the vitriol in Stiles’s voice, and gut-punched at thinking about all of this bullshit _again_ , when it hadn’t even crossed his mind in years.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Derek spat. “Who the fuck do you think you are, judging me. You don’t know one fucking thing about my life now. At least I’m not down at a club every weekend servicing any fucking stranger that asked me like some kind of-”

He managed to stop before he said it, but Stiles was pale and furious anyway. He gripped the table, white knuckled.

“Sure,” he retorted. “Because it’s so much healthier to pretend you have no past, no future and no feelings. I mean, I understand not wanting to look back the complete disaster of your sexual history, Derek. But there comes a point when you can’t just bury your head in the sand. I mean, seriously, _another_ relationship with someone so much younger than you?”

Derek just stared, winded and completely unprepared. The ghosts of Kate and Jennifer have suddenly reared their heads like they’d never left, and with them came the old sick feeling of guilt and stupidity and being used.

 “All that frickin’ angst about dating me, back in the day, and now where are we? You’re five years older now, so close to thirty, but you’re fucking someone even younger than I am,” Stiles shot back. His mouth took on a nasty twist. “I mean, has it occurred to you at all, Derek, that maybe you have a serious fucking _problem?”_

Derek bolted out the door toward the Preserve and didn’t stop running.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Derek woke in the woods, body stiff and cold from a night spent sleeping upright against a tree.

His eyes opened just a slit, just enough to absorb the low level of light filtering through the canopy of leaves above. He took a breath, part sigh, and then the air froze in his lungs.

He opened his eyes fully and turned his head to the right.

“I’m not the guy you knew,” Stiles said. He wasn’t looking at Derek, was staring blankly straight ahead, back resting on a wide tree trunk, one knee propped up.

Derek said nothing. He glanced down at himself, at the rough blanket draped over him that hadn’t been there when he’d collapsed a few hours ago.

“I was a nice guy. I know you lo-liked that about me.” His face didn’t change at the stumble, but Derek heard the kick in the younger man’s heartbeat for just a half-second. “But I haven’t been that guy for a long time.” His face twisted. “I guess you knew when you left - what was going to happen but- yeah. I’ve changed a lot. And learned a lot, being an Emissary. Mistrust and paranoia, mostly.”

He paused, as if waiting for Derek to say something, and then sighed. “Which is mostly my way of avoiding... saying sorry.”

Derek blinked in his direction.

This time when he turned his head Stiles was staring straight at him. His eyes were dark with weariness and guilt. “Derek, I apologise. I am genuinely so fucking sorry I said-”

He closed his eyes and swallowed. “I had no right to say any of that, and worst than that is the fact that I don’t even _believe_ it. I was just.” He gave a little head-shake. “Angry Stiles is a piece of shit,” he said finally. “And I was… jealous. Neither of which excuses me being a complete asshole and striking out with whatever I knew would hurt you the most.”

Derek took a careful breath and nodded once, accepting the apology. They sat there in silence for a while.

“How did you find me?” he finally asked, gesturing with one hand at the forest around them. He’d run pretty wildly for a long time, as far as he could recall, anyway. Panic wasn’t a good look on Derek. Never had been.

Stiles took a breath and let it out after a long moment of waiting. He glanced down at the ground and ran his beautiful fingers over the grass and stones, pressing on a patch of bare dirt beneath. “I’ve spent a lot of time in these woods, the past few years,” he finally said. “This is where all of the shit goes down, seems like.” He shifted his hand until he could run a thumb over the patch of dirt, traces clinging to his skin. “You could say I’ve put a lot of myself into it,” he added. “There’s not much hidden from me in these woods nowadays.”

Derek watched him, trying to read the meaning beneath the words.

Stiles slanted a smile at him, wry and bitter at the same time. “Basically, nobody sets foot in these woods without me knowing about it. I have wards on the roads around town as well. I may have signed up for this blindly, but I’ve put everything I have into surviving this, and being smart about it.”

Derek gave him a sad smile in return. “I’m not surprised to hear it.”

Stiles just nodded, eyes flat and empty.

There was a long silence then, oddly peaceful. Just the forest sounds and their breathing. Derek closed his eyes and pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders. It smelled of Stiles, but more than that, it was a kind of caretaking he hadn’t had since he left Beacon Hills – the kind of family/pack gesture he’d grown up with. The most basic offering of warmth, or food, or shelter.

“I’d give almost anything to come over there and just- jump your bones,” Stiles said suddenly. Derek almost smiled. “But we can’t, can we.”

He risked a glance across the clearing to Stiles. The younger man looked better. Still too thin, but almost fully recovered from his illness in every other way. That bright intelligence was back in his eyes, but with it was a flat fatalism Derek recognises intimately. It was sickening to see that expression on that beloved face.

“No,” Derek replied.

“Because you still have to leave. And I’m still…” he waved a hand toward the medallion that hung beneath his shirts. Only days ago Derek had sponged away sweat from that chest, avoiding touching the medallion as though the touch of it would burn. Such a small thing, to have destroyed so much of Derek’s life, his hopes.

“Yes.”

Stiles nodded, looking away. “It’s so stupid,” he said after a long moment. “There’s, like, so _many_ things to be pissed off about. That I did this without talking to you, that you didn’t find a way to explicitly tell me what you were scared of instead of handing me one of Deaton’s books – a fucking _book,_ Derek. But somehow-”

Derek waited.

Stiles shook his head and licked his lips. “The one that really sticks with me, the one that haunts me on bad nights? Is that we never got to say goodbye, not really. That it ended the way it did with both of us too pissed off to talk, let alone-”

Derek nodded, eyes firmly focused straight ahead. Yep. He’d lingered over that, too, when he was snowed in and bored and self-destructive.

Stiles moves quieter than he used to – self preservation skills – but Derek still sensed the movement. He stayed as he was, curled up beneath the blanket, and barely blinked when Stiles crouched at his side.

One hand came up to cup Derek’s cheek, tender. There was a hitching breath, and then Stiles leaned in to press his face to Derek’s other cheek. Not a kiss. Just. Closeness. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry, Derek. I miss you.”

Shaking, Derek reached up to cup Stiles’s hand. “I know,” he said. “I know, I know. Me too.” He let out a long, shaky breath. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for as long as they could bear, but when Derek finally pulled back Stiles didn’t argue, didn’t try to follow. He watched, eyes sad and lips pressed firmly together as Derek got to his feet, handed back the blanket, and half-ran, half-walked away.

 

 

 

There was an awful kind of symmetry to what happened next. Derek was back at Stiles’s cottage, shoving his clothes into a bag when the Sheriff appeared in the doorway. He heard the older man’s intake of breath, and said nothing, letting him work it out for himself.

“You’re leaving, then.”

“Can’t stay,” Derek replied without looking up. “Nothing’s changed.”

From the corner of his eye he saw the Sheriff sigh, nodding, eyes moving around the room.

“Yeah. I guess not.” He took a breath-

“ _Don’t_ thank me,” Derek cuts him off.

“How can I not thank you? You saved his _life._ ”

“I don’t ever need to be thanked for that,” Derek said, turning to look him full in the face.

They watched one another for a long moment, then he nodded once, crisply, and Derek knew they had reached an understanding.

Just in time, too, because he could hear someone on approach, and he was suddenly sure it was the last person he wanted to see.

Sure enough, Scott rapped quickly on the back door and jogged inside, “Hey, I’ve been trying to call St-”

Derek took a deep breath and drew the zipper closed on his bag.

“You’re _leaving?”_ Scott blurted. “You. But-”

“Yeah,” Derek said, “It’s time.”

“But- you’re not thinking about-”

“Staying?” Derek finished tiredly. “No. It’s – that’s not possible, Scott.”

“But have you even _tried?”_

Derek shook his head, exhausted. It had been more than a week, now, of keeping his expression always contained, his feelings to himself. Of pretending it didn’t rip at his guts to hold Stiles, sleep beside the younger man as if he still had a right to do so, and that seeing Stiles reach out for him without hesitation wasn’t going to burn in his memory for months.

“I can’t.”

There was a short silence, and then Scott said, low and furious, “It’s that easy for you to just walk away-”

Derek’s face crumpled and he swung away, hand coming up to hide his face.

 _“Scott,”_ the Sheriff said, in a tone Derek had never heard from him before. He flicked a quick glance over at the alpha.

Judging from the look on Scott’s face, the alpha had never heard it either. Derek chanced a glance at the older man. He was looking straight at Scott, jaw set in a way that was so reminiscent of Stiles at his most furious that Derek bit back a shocked gasp.

“ _Nothing_ about this is easy for Derek, as you’d know if you’d paid any attention.” He let that sit for a while. “You go on now,” the Sheriff said, and he wasn’t asking. _“Go.”_

Flushed, wrong-footed, Scott sent one flickering glance Derek’s way and then did as he was told.

“Thank you,” Derek said heavily. He left his hand where it was, covering his face.

There was silence, again, and then a large hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Scott wears his heart on his sleeve, always has,” the Sheriff said slowly.

Derek took a slow breath.

“He’s come a long way in the past few years, he’s learned a lot. Both the boys have. But he still doesn’t seem to understand that not everyone shows everything they’re feeling. Doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.”

Derek gave a tiny nod.

“Come on, son,” the Sheriff said. “I’ll drive you into town. You got a plan for getting home?”

“Hire a car, I guess,” Derek said tiredly.

“No-one you need to call? No-one looking for you?”

Derek shook his head. “I live pretty solitary,” he said, not bothering to censor his words.

The large hand on his shoulder tightened for a moment, then the Sheriff sighed. “Yeah,” he said heavily. “I guess you would.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

Derek settled back into life in Montana without a ripple. He was alone enough that the townsfolk hadn’t even realized he’d been gone at all. It was only inside himself that he felt something shift and crack, a stability he’d fought hard to establish and had lost in a heartbeat, hearing Stiles’s voice hard and knowing saying _maybe you have a serious fucking problem_

 _Don’t I fucking know it,_ Derek thought grimly.

 

 

He sent a text message to a rarely-used number a few days after he got back and waited to see if anything would come of it. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to call back or not.

And then one night, quite late, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Cora said.

“Hey,” Derek replied.

There was silence. Neither one of them was a particularly good communicator, and spending a few months together, years ago hadn’t magically fixed that. Sacrifice or no.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m okay.”

Now her silence implied deep scepticism.

He licked his lips and let himself sink back against the living room wall. “I had to go back. For a week or so.”

“Had to go _back_ \- why?”

He winced.

“Stiles was. He was poisoned. I, uh. Was part of the cure, I guess you could say.”

“You went back for _him?_ Why couldn’t _Scott_ fucking cure him? Why did it have to be _you?”_

Cora was probably the only person who’d taken the news of Stiles becoming an Emissary worse than Derek.

“He was dying, Cora,” Derek said, and he’d tried for calm but his voice broke in the middle and she sighed, took her time before saying anything else.

“So he’s all right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Well. That’s… good.” Derek almost smiled at the grudging words. “But you’re back home now?”

“Yeah. I was only gone two weeks.”

“Good thing you never got a pet, I guess.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “How are things with you?”

He could almost hear the shrug. “Fine. There’s another pack visiting from down south, so, y’know. Some posturing, some negotiation. It’s fine.”

“You’re doing the negotiation, I presume?” he teased gently.

She snorted, “You’re hilarious.”

Things went quiet again.

“Have you seen Uncle Peter?” she asked.

“No.”

“Me neither.” Peter had dropped in at the cabin once, years ago, probably only for the purpose of letting Derek know that he had been found.

Derek reached up to grip the phone with his other hand, wishing and wishing he knew what to say to Cora to fix the distance between them. To connect. It was a pipe dream, though. Their lives were just… separate. It was just how things were. Too much water under the bridge.

“Okay well,” she said, “I gotta go.”

He nodded. This had actually been a pretty long conversation, for them. And miraculously, nothing had even gone wrong.

“Thanks for calling,” he said.

“No problem. Take care of yourself, all right?”

“You too. Call me if you need anything,” he said, knowing it was futile.

“Yeah, sure. Bye, D.”

And then she was gone, and Derek was alone again.

 

 

 

 _“Stiles?”_ Derek heard himself whisper in disbelief.

“Shit-” Stiles muttered, and cast a quick glance around the tiny post office.  They were garnering a curious glance from the lady behind the counter, but nothing too bad. “Uh. Sorry. I really didn’t mean to spring it on you like this. I was going to, y’know. Come find you. Tomorrow, probably. Or tonight, let’s be honest, it’s not like I’m great at waiting-”

Derek just stared at him. Stiles wasn’t supposed to be here. Stiles was Beacon Hills and the past put firmly behind him. Stiles was something Derek chased after in dreams, not a familiar scent in somewhere as mundane as the Post Office.

On the heels of that thought a flush of adrenaline surged through Derek’s body. Stiles was an _Emissary_. If he’d fled Beacon Hills, this had to be _bad_.

He stepped in close, kept his voice low, “Who is it? _What_ is it?” His eyes flicked around the store, ears straining for anything out of the ordinary. If Stiles had run all the way to Derek, then the crisis had to be really fucking bad.

“Oh shit,” Stiles muttered, “ _No,_ Derek, it’s not-”

Derek inhaled deeply, filtering through all the long-familiar scents.

 _“Shit,”_ Stiles muttered, and his tone was so wretched Derek was started out of his threat assessment and snapped his head around to stare at the younger man. “Look, obviously we can’t talk about it here. Come on,” Stiles said, gathering Derek’s scattered post deftly up off the floor and snagging the older man’s sleeve as he straightened. “Come with me. _Derek_. Come on. I’ll follow you back home in my car and we’ll talk there.”

He followed dumbly, obedient now as he had never been.

 

 

 

Wow, Stiles. Just _wow_. In a life containing many, many cringeworthy mistakes, this one is just a freakin’ plum. Notch up yet another one in the ‘didn’t think it through’ column. Which is, of course, exactly the opposite of the impression he’d been trying for.

He followed Derek’s truck up a winding mountain road and tried to calm his own racing heart. He concentrated on the detail he could see to distract himself. The truck had Montana plates, it was a huge monster of a thing with well-used straps and tie-downs neatly coiled up in a toolbox – how Derek transported his furniture, probably.

Stiles couldn’t assume anything about Derek, who he was now, what he thought and felt. Everywhere he looked he could see reminders that Derek had put down roots here. He had established a life so different from Beacon Hills it had to be the result of deliberate choice. Camaro versus a pickup. Pack versus a whole Grizzly Adams-schtick. California versus Montana.

At least Stiles’ own vehicle could handle the conditions. It would have been too fucking painful to turn up here in a little Honda or something. A Prius. His Dad had raised his eyebrows a little when Stiles had pretty much just switched his old beauty for a bigger, meaner version, but thankfully hadn’t stressed the obvious point – that Stiles needed bigger and meaner because his life had turned out that way. He spent too much time in the woods to drive anything less practical than a 4x4.

Up ahead Derek turned onto a narrower road that got serious about climbing the mountain right away. Stiles flicked quick glances outside as he turned past tall trees stretching up into the sky - god, it was beautiful country - but kept his eyes on the road for the most part. He felt oddly as though he had to pass some kind of test today, show he could … _Montana things_ like Derek did without screwing it up. He wasn’t a city kid, not by a long shot, but he had no real frame of reference for country like this, so huge and open and largely empty of people.

A few minutes later Derek swung through an open set of double gates with the ease of long practice, and Stiles followed. Derek, idling on the track ahead, jumped down and strode past Stiles’ car to haul the gates closed. He flung a chain around them in a loose loop and shot a questioning glance over his shoulder that Stiles understood perfectly. He leaned his head out, caught Derek’s eye and shook his head. No need for padlocks or extra precautions.

He fell back against the driver’s seat and let out a long breath. Shit. He’d really fucked this up. Derek was on full alert, and it wasn’t easy to come down from that kind of adrenaline surge. Stiles knew that from long, bitter experience.

Derek jogged back to his truck and took the lead again. The climb was a little less drastic now, which was probably lucky considering the state these roads must get into when the snowfalls started. Stiles pulled up a few minutes later beside Derek’s truck and killed the engine, staring at Derek’s home.

Derek’s [_home_](http://cabinobsession.com/one-of-a-kind-exquisite-log-stone/).

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

It was a stone cabin, which Stiles maybe could have guessed. It was _beautiful_ , though. Not some simple one-room little box. Some of the uprights did look like rough-hewn logs, but in the middle of the structure he could see a huge stone chimney spearing up into that famous Big Sky, and the walls were carefully constructed, pale gray and beautiful.  He slid out of the jeep and landed with a thud on the gravel drive, knowing his mouth was half-open and not caring.

The treeline started not too far behind the house, but if he leaned out to see around the corner there was – god, there was a tiny lake, well more of a pond, really, only fifteen or so feet from the front of the place.

“You have _got_ to put a deck in there,” Stiles said without thinking, hearing Derek’s boots crunch on the gravel behind him. “All the way out to the water.”

There was a moment of started silence and then Derek said. “Uh. Yeah. Maybe?”

Stiles glanced back at him just in time to see Derek’s quick flash of pride as he looked at the house.

“It’s gorgeous. Jesus, it’s- I can barely talk. Derek. This is _beautiful.”_

He swallowed. God, it was _ridiculous,_ but he was honestly choked up all of a sudden. Derek was so _alone_ in this new life he’d made. Stiles had worried about it in the immediate aftermath of the breakup, obsessed over it, really. And then when he’d overheard his Dad talking, realized who he was talking _to_ …

Well. He’d done his research and found out where Derek was. And that he was as alone as it was possible to be. And Stiles, shitty person that he was, had been _relieved_. Relieved to discover Derek hadn’t moved on and found someone better, someone who deserved that big, half-starved heart.

Wow Stiles had really discovered some new depths of self-loathing that first year. How could he _possibly_ be glad Derek was alone? What sort of selfish asshole did that make him?

And then, of course, had come news of Terry. And hadn’t Stiles made a fool of himself over that, in private as well as in front of Derek.

“Yeah,” Derek finally murmured behind him. “Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

Stiles swallowed and made himself turn away from the view.

“Come on in,” Derek said, and led the way inside. He kicked off his boots just inside the door, and Stiles realized a half-second later that they’d pretty much parked around the back of the house, were entering through a kind of utility room-come-workshop.

“This is where the magic happens, huh?” Stiles murmured, toeing off his Converse. He recognised Derek’s work with an immediate, visceral reaction. _There you are, I’ve missed you_. There are the strong clean lines of a bookcase taking shape, some longer cuts of timber leaning up against the far wall that might turn into a bed or a dining table.

“I guess,” Derek muttered, no more comfortable with talking about it than he’d ever been. He kept on walking, further into the house, and they ended up hovering awkwardly between the kitchen bench and the fireplace.

For a moment Stiles just waited, half-expecting Derek to offer him coffee, or a beer, and then he met the older man’s eyes and realized he wasn’t thinking about hospitality. The beta was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Stiles hadn’t exactly been convincing back in town, after all.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said immediately. “Nobody is looking for me, no-one is coming for you. I swear. No need to be on alert.”

Derek took a slow breath in and folded his arms. “Okay,” he said, cautious. “What, then?”

_Why are you here?_

Stiles blew out a breath and glanced away from Derek. There were things he needed to say now that he’d never allowed himself to think about before. Hadn’t been able to afford the distraction, to be honest. Every single day since Derek first left had been about survival. But now…

Now things were different. He’d had the long drive to Montana to realize that.

“I don’t think I– ever really apologised to you. For. For what I- when I took the oath.”

Derek blinked and drew back a little. Hadn’t been expecting that.

“You were right- I did, I. I figured you’d be furious. I knew there’d be a massive fight. But I did think-” He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d… come ‘round.”

There was a short silence. Then Stiles made himself say, “I thought I’d figured out a way that I wouldn’t have to choose between you.” Thought he’d been so fucking _clever_ , he thought bitterly. Not that he’d been that honest about it even in his own head. It had just seemed like Scott and the pack had a real need, while Derek just had a stubborn refusal to really consider the idea.

Derek’s jaw clenched and he looked away.

“I went over and over it in my head, those first few months after you left.” It was getting easier to talk about it. “And yeah, part of me is still pissed that you never actually explicitly said _if you do this I will be forced to leave you and the pack-_ ”

“Well pardon me for not knowing you were on the verge of taking the fucking oath,” Derek shot back, face flushing red. “No-one informed me we were _done talking_.”

Stiles sighed and raised a hand, _peace_. “Yeah, I know,” he said softly. “ _Believe_ me, I know. I punished myself for a long time over that.” _Punished Scott, too_ , he thought to himself. Because with the hindsight of years, he could see how Scott had manipulated him. Probably not deliberately – or, not consciously, might be a fairer description. But Scott had definitely applied unfair pressure, and he had definitely been the one to plant the idea of presenting Derek with a _fait accompli_.

Their friendship had never truly recovered. Not really. They were still close, God, how could they not be, with these past few  years of laser-like focus on survival, and pretty much nothing else. But what bound them to one another now were grim loyalties and shared priorities, an acknowledgement of a wrong they had both done.

No, the lighthearted Stiles and Scott show had been gone for many years, and to be honest, it was only fair, considering the hugeness of the mistake they’d made, and what it could have cost.

But even now, Stiles knew, the majority of Scott’s guilt lay tied up in the Sheriff’s reaction to their confession, all those years ago. Scott had never expressed any regret on Derek’s behalf. He had a blind spot for Derek, a resentment that he could not seem to let go of. Stiles often wondered if perhaps Scott had settled a lot of his anger toward Peter and his own, absent father, on Derek.

Derek who had always been around, always, _always_ saying the wrong thing. Derek who was just old enough to seem like an authority figure. And Derek, who was bound up in the supernatural world Scott had been forced into, and who spoke of werewolf laws and traditions with a deep-seated respect that made Scott bridle and push back, every time.

Those two would never make their peace, Stiles knew. And now, finally, Stiles had made his own peace with that. All these years later, he’d made his own choice.

“I’m honestly not here to rehash that,” Stiles said, trying to gather his wayward thoughts back in. “It’s…” he gestured vaguely, “it’s water under a bridge about ninety miles back.”

“Why are you here, then?” There was no challenge to it, just confusion. And for some reason it was the touch of confusion that wrongfooted Stiles and left him speechless.

He was still searching for words when Derek shifted, eyes narrowing, then drew in a quick, shocked breath, starting forward. His eyes dropped to Stiles’ torso. “Are- are you-”

Stiles just stood there, frozen. He hadn’t expected Derek to _guess._

“Stiles,” he whispered, and one big hand came up to rest gently on his chest, dead centre. Stiles swallowed, reached up to unbutton his overshirt and draw the sides apart. Derek slid his hand up, searching, one side of Stiles’s throat and then the other, feeling through his t-shirt for a strip of leather that was no longer there.

“It’s gone,” Stiles said, voice scratchy. “Oath fulfilled.”

“What?” It came out as a shaky puff of air. _“How?”_

Stiles licked his lips. Derek’s hands were both resting on his shoulders now, eyes still staring at the place where the Emissary medallion should be. “Deaton thought the uh. Poison,” he said, swallowing. “That I came near enough to death that. The obligation to the pack had been satisfied.”

“It’s gone? Just like that?” the words were just the faintest puff of air.

“It’s gone. I swear. It’s over.”

Derek staggered back a step or two, half-fell onto one of the high stools beside the breakfast bar. Braced there against the stool, he leaned forward, head turned away to conceal his face, breathing hard.

It took Stiles far too long to realize Derek was crying.

The wolf was bent almost double, his hands on his knees. His breath came in soft hitches, torn and wet.

“Derek,” he said softly. No answer. Stiles watched him for a long moment, uncertain. He should offer comfort. He knew that. If this were a movie, he’d move forward, wrap Derek up in his arms and they would take comfort from one another.

Instead he just stood there, useless.

Finally he sighed silently, got up and went into the kitchen. He checked the coffeemaker and found it clean and ready to go. Coffee was in a canister on the bench, so Stiles kept himself busy filling the machine, then flicked it on. He leaned back against the bench and waited, eyes focused on the view outside the window – a small garage and the gravel driveway. Every part of him ached to touch Derek, to hold him through his grief, but he had less right than any other person on this planet to do so. Stiles had _caused this_. He didn’t get to offer comfort after.

And honestly? After all these years of living the way he had? He no longer knew how.

After another minute Derek’s breathing settled and Stiles risked glancing back. The wolf passed a hand over his face and turned to stare at the opposite wall. “Sorry,” he managed, “I know this looks kind of pathe-”

“Derek,” Stiles burst in, “don’t you apologise for that. Don’t you _dare_.” He stopped himself and did some deep breathing of his own. “When Dad found out he cried like I haven’t seen since M-” he stopped and took a breath. “Since Mom died,” he added, more quietly. “Isaac broke down, Scott couldn’t talk for half an hour.”

Derek hesitated, then gave one short nod, accepting this. Stiles eyed him. He could leave it there. He didn’t have to add anything, Derek clearly wasn’t expecting it.

Then Stiles swallowed and forced himself to add, “Not me, though.”

That got Derek to glance around. “What?”

“I can’t.” Stiles said. He stared down at his hands, too cowardly to meet Derek’s eyes. “I’m happy it’s over. God, of course I am. I just. I can’t. Feel it.” His mouth twisted wryly and he finally risked one fleeting glance up, took in Derek’s worried face.

He took a long, steadying breath, breathing in the aroma of coffee as it began to drift through the house. He let his eyes move past Derek, focusing on the view out the huge glass doors, the tiny pond he could see. “First time we had a… situation…” He grimaced. “About five minutes after you left, it felt like.  All those years ago. I figured out pretty quick that I couldn’t. I couldn’t let myself… if I was going to survive this. I couldn’t let… _feelings_ affect me anymore. Worrying about what the pack thought, or letting some moron’s trash-talk get to me would be the quickest way to die. And at the very least, I owed it to Dad not to die. So I had to shut it down.”

Derek sucked in a sharp breath. Stiles bit his lip and looked away again. After a moment Derek pushed to his feet and went around the breakfast bar to retrieve mugs, sugar, cream. In silence he made them each a cup of coffee while Stiles tried to gather himself together.

“After a while it got easier,” Stiles told him. “I just. Closed it off.” He shrugged. “And now it’s like – I don’t know if that part of me is even still there. Maybe this is just who I am now. Maybe I’ll just be numb forever.” _I just don’t feel things anymore._

“I don’t believe that,” Derek said, quietly. He didn’t look up from where he was stirring cream into Stiles’ coffee.

Stiles had no reply to that.

Derek pushed the mug across the bench to Stiles, then lent his forearms on the bench and gave him a long, level look. “Stiles,” he said. “Why are you here?”

He swallowed and wrapped a hand around the mug.  “I can’t be in Beacon Hills anymore,” he said slowly. “It’s not- I look for threats everywhere I go, now. And I don’t think time is going to help me shake it. There’s too many bad memories.” He sipped, stalling for time. Derek stood on the other side of the bench, patient as stone. The years really had changed them both.

“I thought – Dad suggested, actually. That being around strangers might help. Going somewhere totally new. But every time I started looking into anything – a job, even a holiday. Nothing felt right. Until I thought about coming here, and being near you.”

Stiles put the mug down. “Derek,” he said, and he didn’t flinch from the naked pleading in his own voice. “I want to get to know you again. Be your friend again.”

Derek just stared.

“Will you give me that? A chance?”

There was a long silence as Derek put a hand over his mouth and looked away. “You’re finally free,” he said eventually. “You can leave Beacon Hills and do whatever you want. And this is what you’re choosing? The ass-end of Montana?”

Stiles stumbled over to the other bar stool and sank down onto it. He was shaking, suddenly. Too many emotions on the other man’s face. “Did you think I’d run off to a Greek island or something?”

“I never thought you’d get the chance to do anything at all,” Derek told him, and his voice is grim and choked with grief. All these years Derek has been slowly grieving Stiles as already dead. Just waiting for confirmation that it had finally happened. Stiles flinched, reminded once again what he cost them both by being impulsive and selfish and too loyal to Scott. “The odds just seemed too… I’ve never heard of an inexperienced Emissary surviving this long.”

There was a long silence. Then Stiles said, “Yes.” Answering the question Derek had asked first. “This is what I’m choosing. It’s not just about you– I have to get to know myself again, Derek. Who I am when I’m not-”

There’s a pause.

“At war,” Derek finished for him.

Stiles didn’t reply to that. They both know the truth of it. Eventually, he said, “I want to start fresh. But I don’t want to run away from my entire life.” _Just most of it,_ he thought humourlessly. “I don’t want to pretend to be someone else. I just want to figure out who this version of me is.”

“And I want you to be a part of my life, part of my future,” he forced himself to add, when Derek didn’t speak.

Stiles winced. That last bit was a little too naked, but he’d made himself some promises on the long drive here. No games. Of any kind. He’d become very good at wordplay and sidling out of conversations without revealing anything. It was second nature by now. But if he wanted any kind of normal life again, he was going to have to unlearn that, one painful step at a time.

“And it will help, I think,” he added. “To have someone who… knows.” _What I know. What I’m afraid of. What I remember._

Derek gave a slow, thoughtful nod to that.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Guys, I think I have an ending!  
> Ugh. I've been writing this since before the auction even ended and last night it finally, finally clicked!  
> I normally figure out the ending very early in my process, so I've been completely freaked out but now it's all coming together.   
> Phew.

 

Stiles didn’t stay long. Afraid of wearing out his welcome. Afraid of doing something that would make it screamingly obvious he was no longer the man Derek remembered. He drove home, through the gathering twilight, paying strict attention to the road. One day, maybe, this would be familiar. If he was lucky, he would have the chance to drive this road many times. But for now, he was just determined not to get lost and be _that guy,_ the out-of-towner who needed a rescue on Day One.

The next morning he was making toast and blinking blearily around his tiny apartment when the thought hit him that he never gave Derek his number. He hesitated for a moment, then gave a mental shrug and dragged out his phone. He’d gotten the number from his Dad the day he driven out of Beacon Hills and there was no point pretending he didn’t have it.

Stiles sent a simple text _Hey, it’s me, thought we should exchange numbers now that we’re almost neighbours._ Then he hit the top favourite in his contacts and waited for the call to connect.

“Stiles?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“How are you doing, son?” There were layers in that voice, echoes of the years his father had spent half-waiting for disaster with every call. In a strange way Stiles had trapped his father into the same situation every cop’s family knows intimately: a life where there is a great deal of normality and routine, but with the ever-present reality of danger, a knowledge in the back of the mind that at any moment it could all turn bad and you could receive that dreaded phone call.

He hesitated for a half-second, then said, “I saw Derek.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “How did it go.”

“He was, uh. Stunned?” _And then panicked,_ Stiles thought grimly. “A little worried I was on the run from some disaster.”

“Ah, yeah. I can see that.”

Stiles nodded, collected his toast and started buttering. “I talked him down, we drove up to his place so we could talk and I, uh. Explained as best I could.”

“Good,” Dad said, “that’s good.”

Silence fell between them as Stiles walked with his plate to the tiny table by the window. He stared out through the gauzy curtains at the main street of town and blurted out, “He’s been thinking of me as dead, basically.” Then he winced. Derek and his Dad had a lot in common, these days.

There’s silence, then his dad sighed. “I guess you both have some adjusting to do.”

His father had been the only person who hadn’t seemed surprised at Stiles’s chosen destination.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, voice rough. He glanced around the little apartment one more time. Nothing about it was familiar, and it didn’t feel particularly safe, either. He was perched above a store on the main street, a rickety fire escape his only exit aside from the narrow stairs. But then, this was civilian life, wasn’t it? This was what he had to adjust to. Sooner or later he’d stop jumping at shadows and start relaxing again.

Right?                           

“His house is amazing,” he offered, and focused hard on having a normal conversation with his dad. He could do this. He fucking _would_ do this.

 

 

 

Derek didn’t see Stiles for two days. He worried on it, endlessly, like a trapped animal gnawing at an injured limb. Then he thought, _I should call. I should call him. Shouldn’t I?_

Instead, of course, like a coward, he texted.

_You busy?_

Derek winced, staring down at his screen as it went dark. Moron. How _exactly_ would Stiles be busy in a town like Baden?

However, he got an immediate reply.  _I just bought a Louis L’Amour novel at the thrift store. Does that answer your question?_

Something in Derek’s shoulders loosened. _Want to come over for lunch?_

_Emphatically YES._

_See you soon._

_I’ll bring something?_

Derek hesitated, then sent back, _Fresh bread might be good. I freeze a lot of food._

_Done._

He stood staring at his screen for an embarrassingly long time before he realized he was doing it, then he flushed, glanced around as if there was someone here to see him do it, and blushed even harder. Then he sighed. These were, oddly enough, the moments where Derek missed Laura – or the _idea_ of her – most of all. There was no-one to mock him for his socialfails, and sometimes that hurt more than the absence of sisterly hugs. It hurt, too, that he didn’t miss Cora in the same way. Couldn’t miss what you’d never had, he supposed.

Derek shoved his phone in his back pocket and went to examine his fridge for sandwich fixings.

Stiles showed up with soft, beautiful bread rolls from the bakery, a six-pack of beer and a slightly manic look in his eye. He was still alarmingly thin, eyes darkly shadowed and fatigued.

“Too quiet?” Derek asked knowingly.  It was an adjustment, all right, from Beacon Hills to Baden. And it could only be worse for Stiles, who has had a large pack in his life for years now. Derek, at least, had prior practise at being alone. He kept his eyes on his hands as he drew sandwich fixings out of the fridge.

Stiles shrugged. Then said. “Well. I mean. It’s nice, in a way. People have no idea who I am,” he said with a kind of wonder, and Derek smiled a little. The Sheriff’s kid experiencing anonymity for the first time ever. “But-”

“But no-one knows who you are,” Derek said, understanding perfectly. It’s not like he’d liked being _that Hale boy_. But there had been a certain security in it. 

Well. Stiles would adjust, or he wouldn’t. No point worrying about it.  “What are you- I mean, do you have a job?”

Stiles shrugged. “Substitute teaching is the plan, once summer’s over.” He hesitated then shot a sideways glance at Derek and took a quick sip of beer. “I… finished my Masters so... I should be able to get some work. I mean, I started all the paperwork to register with the district before I left Beacon Hills, so I guess we’ll see. I’ll look for something else in the meantime, I guess, until school starts up again. I have enough money saved that I’m not panicking. Not yet.”

Derek nodded. 

They were quiet, then, finishing their sandwiches and clearing the dishes away. Stiles insisting on washing up. “You can.” Derek trailed off, then said diffidently, “You’re welcome up here whenever you like. You don’t have to wait for an invitation.”

Stiles went still, eyes down and staring into the sink. “Oh.”

Then he didn’t say anything.

“Were you – did you think you wouldn’t be welcome?” Derek asked. Had to ask. This reticence was so unlike Stiles.

Stiles resumed rinsing the plates. “Well.” His shoulders performed a complicated shrug and wiggle. “It did occur to me that uh. Just up and moving here was kind of… stalkerish. And so maybe it would be better if I didn’t just. Keep showing up.”

“No.” Derek said. “That’s not- it wouldn’t be better.”

“Are you.” He cleared his throat. “Derek, are you sure.” His voice was carefully even, and Derek found himself disliking the control in it, the loss of that expressiveness that had always been so very _Stiles_.

“ _Yes,”_ Derek said. “I’m sure.”

From the fridge he could only see the curve of Stiles’ cheek, but he was sure the shape of it changed – sure that the younger man smiled. “Okay then,” he said, deliberately light. “But you’ll be sorry.”

“I think I remember that feeling,” Derek said, and turned away before Stiles could see that he, too, was smiling.

 

 

 

Derek stopped by the Oldham farm once every week or so to buy eggs. It wasn’t usually a complicated transaction, either Miz Oldham was there and took his cash in exchange for a dozen eggs, or one of the stablehands did, or sometimes Derek just left the cash on the rickety table by the barn.

Today was Miz Oldham’s day, and she was _not_ happy. Derek  hesitated for a long time, deciding whether or not to say anything as she grumbled about kids who wouldn’t stay put and shirked their fair share of the work. Finally, eggs in hand, Derek ventured, “Uh. Is something-”

“Dwayne’s off to the city,” she exploded. “Three months! And what are we supposed to-”

“All right, love,” came another voice, “all right.”

Derek found himself blinking and giving silent thanks for the intervention.

“It’s not all right,” she shot back, turning. “What are we meant to do with all the stock-”

“Glenda,” Mr Oldham said gently. “Don’t take on so.”

She threw her hands up and stalked off, still muttering.

“Sorry about that,” Joe offered, smiling awkwardly. “She’s uh. Not taking it well.”

“It’s all right,” Derek replied, already backing away. “Not really any of my business-”

“I mean we saw this comin’,” the older man said, like Derek hadn’t even spoken. “Boy’s not interested in farming. No future in it, anyway, way the world’s going.”

Derek stood there, horribly torn. He wanted not to be here, and he wanted not to have this conversation, but he wasn’t quite rude enough to walk away while the man was mid-sentence.

“He’s got a contract with some big tech firm down in Houston,” the man offered. He sighed and turned his head to stare out over the farm. “Leaving in two weeks.”

“I- sorry?”

Joe shook his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. He wants what he wants, and he’s got a right to it. His mother’ll come around, soon as we figure out how we’re gonna cover all the work that needs doin’.”

Derek nodded agreement and began shifting his feet to make a hasty exit. He was half-turned away when a thought hit him and he swung back abruptly. “Do you- are you saying you need another hand?”

Joe glanced over, brows raised. “I guess we do, at that. Why? You lookin’ for work?”

“Uh, not me, no. A… friend of mine. From California. He moved out here last week. I think he’s looking for work right now.”

“Wouldn’t be much money,” Joe cautioned. “Probably only for the summer, too.”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t think he’d mind that. But uh. I don’t think he has any experience with farm work.”

Joe tilted his head side to side. “Man can be taught easy enough, I reckon. Most important thing is, does he want to work?” he eyed Derek up and down, then said, “A friend, you say?”

Derek just nodded. If there was some kind of homophobia in Joe’s head, he wasn’t going to go looking for it. He’d heard and overheard his fair share of bigoted garbage since he moved to Montana, but he didn’t go seeking trouble and apart from a couple of memorable confrontations early on, trouble hadn’t gone out of it’s way to find him. “I’ve known him since he was a teenager,” he said.

“And he just happened to settle in the middle of nowhere?”

Ah, it was just the natural desire for gossip, then. “He wanted a change. Guess he thought it’d be easier to move to a place where he already knew someone.” Let the town chew on that for a while.

Joe watched Derek for a moment, then said. “Well. Send him out here if he’s interested. Probably he could take care of the horses, that’d free me up to do Dwayne’s share of the work. No promises – but I’ll give him a trial, see if this works out for both of us.”

“That’s – really, thank you, Mr Oldham,” Derek said. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. I’ll uh, ask him to call you?”

The older man just nodded. “Yup. And then I guess we’ll see.” He waited, then said, “He got a name, your friend?”

“Oh,” Derek said, feeling stupid. “Stiles. His name is Stiles.”

 

 

 

On impulse Derek drove down into town rather than going home and simply calling. The idea that he could simply see Stiles whenever he wants is somewhat staggering. He had to test it, he thought, before he could really believe it.

He pulled up across the street from the tiny apartment Stiles had rented above the pizza place, automatically listening for the younger man the moment he was out of his truck. Sure enough, Stiles was at home, humming tunelessly to something and making the normal, small noises of domestic life – drawers opening and closing, footsteps, crinkling of paper. Derek jogged up the stairs, knocked on the door and when the door opened the sight of Stiles was like a physical blow.

“What’s wrong?” Derek demanded, pushing forward.

“Oh,” Stiles said faintly. His heart had started racing the moment Derek’s foot hit the bottom of the staircase, which was weird, come to think of it. It hit the beta then, that Stiles wasn’t excited to see Derek, he was _scared_ , and he was scared _before_ he even opened the door. His dilated eyes hint that he was probably flooded with adrenaline right now – Derek had seen that often enough to recognise the combination for what it was. But beyond that – Stiles looked terrible. There were huge circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his skin had a greyish hue and his entire body seemed limp and lifeless.

“What the fuck _happened?”_ Derek asked again, and he wanted to touch so _badly_.

“Nothing,” Stiles said. “What- I mean, what are you-”

“Don’t tell me _nothing_ , Stiles. Shit, I’ve seen  you look better than this when you were bleeding out from a serious injury. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said again, then shrugged helplessly before Derek could get truly angry. “I just. Can’t sleep, I guess. Like. Not for longer than an hour or so.”

“And how long have you been unable to sleep?”

Stiles shrugged again. “I don’t know. Since I got here?”

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek said, dismayed. “It’s been almost two weeks.”

“Yeah, I dunno.” He ran a hand over his hair, which stuck up even worse after. Shrugged again.

 Derek was already sick of the shrug.

“You can’t keep going like this.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. But he just stood there.

Derek fumbled for something to say. _Basics,_ he thought. “Are you eating?”

 _“Yes,_ ” Stiles said, more definitely this time. “Yeah I uh,” he blinked, obviously not thinking clearly. “I had breakfast, and last night was… pizza. I’m eating. I’m not self destructing, Derek,” he managed, the start of defensiveness in his voice. “I just…”

“-can’t sleep”, Derek finished for him. _Jesus_. The last time Stiles looked like this had been weeks ago in Beacon Hills, in the grip of a poisoned fever.  He hesitated, not sure this was going to help, but then he just asked, “Nightmares?”

Stiles mouth flattened out. There was a long pause and then he said. “Yes, but. I mean. Not excessively.”

Meaning nightmares are normal for him.

_Fuck._

Derek eyed him, thinking hard, sifting back through the things he’d heard from Scott’s pack members, and from Stiles himself, in the fever. The image was pretty clear - Stiles had spent years in a constant state of threat. Hyper vigilance was a way of life for him now. And back in Beacon Hills he’d had mechanisms to protect himself, Derek recalled. _Nothing happens in these woods that I don’t know about_ – wards set up on the roads, and presumably around his house, other important places. Now he was here, in unfamiliar territory with no pack, no wards, and no sense of control over things.

Put like that - how did Derek _not_ see this coming?

He made a snap decision. “You’re coming home with me.”

 “Buh-wha-?” It said a lot that Stiles’ normal quick wit was so dulled he had no reply for that.

“You might be able to sleep knowing there’s someone else around – a wolf – to watch your back. And the distance from town will probably help, too.”

 _Plus I’ll know straight away if you’re on the verge of collapse from exhaustion and stress and general paranoia_ , he thought but didn’t say.

“I-I can’t do that,” he stammered out. “Derek, you don’t – don’t want-”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “I can decide what I do and don’t want,” he said calmly. “But Stiles, I gotta say right now you don’t look like you could make a good decision about what to have for lunch.”

When Stiles didn’t bridle at that, Derek knew he was truly exhausted. Time to just barrel forward and deal with the fallout later. “Grab a bag, and some clothes. I’ll go through your fridge and grab anything that might spoil. We can drive back down in a day or two if you’ve forgotten anything.”

Stiles stared at him, swaying a little on his feet.

“Go,” Derek said more gently. “Five minutes.”

Stiles blinked slowly, and went.               

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys - I just wanted to let you know that posting will get a bit sporadic throughout the holiday period. There'll be a seven day period where I have no wifi (clutches pearls) but aside from that just... yanno, general holiday related insanity. I promise I'll finish, tho.

 

There was silence – not angry or tense, just quiet – between them on the drive up the mountain. Derek watched Stiles nod off once or twice, startling awake when the sharp curves of the road rolled him from side to side in his seat.

Derek spent the drive thinking through the logistics. He did have a spare room - no actual a bed in it, just boxes. But when Derek had bought the place the barn had been half-full of odds and ends, including an old bunk-bed setup. Terry had used one of the mattresses that first snowed-in weekend, so there was a place for Stiles to sleep that wouldn’t evolve into some Hallmark snowed-in-forced-to-share-a-bed parody.

What worried Derek was the _apathy_ Stiles displayed. It wasn’t helplessness, exactly. Derek would feel better if Stiles seemed frustrated or worried about how awful he felt. It was more like he didn’t understand that there was anything _to_ worry about. Like he’d accepted this as normal.

Finally they pulled in behind the house and stepped out onto the long sweep of gravel spread between the house and the barn, boots crunching with every step. It might have been summer, but the cabin was high enough up the mountain that the air was always just slightly cool. Stiles looked around, blinking and swaying a little on the spot.

“Come on,” Derek said, and took the bag from Stiles’s hand. “This way.”

He decided not to insist on Stiles sleeping right away. Long experience taught Derek that Stiles could dig his heels in about small things like no-one else he’d ever met. Whatever else might have changed in the past few years, Derek felt pretty certain that was not one of them. He pulled two beers from the fridge instead and led Stiles to the small porch that looked toward the lake. Derek let his eyes roam over it again. Yeah, a deck all the way out to the water would be amazing.

“It’s so quiet.” It was the first thing Stiles had said since they left town.

Derek nodded. He couldn’t really say anything else, though. Every thought he has relating to the serenity and the silence come back to how wounded and messed up Derek had been when he arrived here, and how much he had needed the solitude to learn to be on his own again.

Stiles yawned, a huge jaw-cracking gape that left him blinking confusedly down at his beer.

“Be right back,” Derek said. He slipped inside the house and found some sheets, then went into the spare room to shift some boxes aside and lay the mattress down on the floor. He’d already overstepped his admittedly murky boundaries by bringing Stiles out here in the first place, he wasn’ot going to actually try to manhandle or order Stiles to go to bed. But he could make everything ready without it being too weird.

Except now Stiles was in the doorway, brows raised as high as they could go. “This for me?”

Derek froze for a second, then nodded.

Stiles yawned hugely again and shook his head, scratching his chest. “Well, uh. Seems like my body’s trying to tell me something.”

“Can hurt just to try it out,” Dereks said, trying for casual and missing it by a Montana mile.

Stiles gave him a faint, sardonic smile, then shrugged. “True enough, I s’pose.” He moved forward, but the room really wasn’t large enough for the two of them and all the boxes, and they did an awkward shuffle around one another until Derek was near the door and Stiles beside the bed.

“Okay,” Derek said. “Well, uh. I’ll leave you to it.” Then he winced. It sounded like he thought Stiles was going to be ‘up to something’ in there, and knowing Stiles he’d interpret it in the filthiest possible way. Derek was braced for innuendo and Stiles sent him a flickering glance full of mischief before he straightened his shoulders and visibly let the moment go.

“Thanks,” he said instead.

Derek shrugged and stepped back from the door. “Get some rest,” he said.

Derek didn’t stand silently inside the cabin monitoring the sound of Stiles breathing, because even Derek knew that would be _beyond creepy_. Instead he gathered up his sketchbook and positioned himself by the huge front window, letting images of new designs flow through his head as he stared out across his land to the treeline. If his location happened to mean that he could hear when Stiles shifted restlessly and muttered in his sleep, well.

It was a coincidence.

 

 

 

Stiles slept near on nine hours straight. He stirred once or twice, but whether he woke up all the way or not, he fell back to sleep without too much trouble. Derek sanded some of his pieces by hand for an hour or two, checked some measurements so he would be ready for cutting the next day, did some tax paperwork and general tidying around the house. Anything that was quiet and let him stay in earshot of Stiles, basically.

It was nearing midnight by the time Stiles stirred again, and Derek had just been contemplating bed himself.  Instead he hesitated, listening to the sounds of the other man shuffling into the bathroom, and stayed in front of the TV, staring blankly at the screen. It was a re-run of ER, and George Clooney was very earnestly and handsomely arguing with… someone. A social worker, maybe?

“Hey,” Stiles husked from the doorway.

Derek turned sideways on the couch. “Hey.”

Stiles was staring blankly out the huge windows that Derek almost always left uncovered. “Wow,” he said. “Nothin’out there but the night, huh?”

Derek followed his gaze. He’d forgotten what an adjustment it was to be far enough from town that no glow of street lights reached you. “Well,” he said, drawing the word out, “if you don’t count elk and bears and cougars, I guess.”

“Funny,” Stiles said.

“Hungry?”

“Jeez, yes.” Stiles ambled forward, hitching his pajama pants a little higher, and Derek kept his eyes carefully on the younger man’s face, which was still wet, as if he’d just dunked his head under a stream of water. There were droplets caught in his hair and behind his ears.

Derek drew in a slow breath and focused on finding the covered plate of mac and cheese he’d left in the fridge.  “I saved you something.”

Once the plate was turning slowly in the microwave he shifted and finally met Stiles’s eyes. They were alert and watchful, all that exhausted cloudiness gone, and Derek had the sudden feeling he was in serious trouble.

“I seem to remember this nurturing side of you,” Stiles said. “Guess that hasn’t changed, huh.”

“You’re not hungry?” Derek deflected, and turned to gather a knife and fork.

“I must really look like shit,” Stiles said, and there’s… something in his tone. Wry, but with a hint of self deprecation.

Derek would very much like to not discuss his helpless impulse to take care of Stiles. “Well, we can’t all be soul crushingly handsome.” He kept his eyes on the microwave and tried not to kick himself for using the old joke as a distraction. Stiles used to tease Derek about the supposed trail of broken hearts he left, never once realizing his own appeal.

Stiles barked out a startled laugh. “True. God, you must have caused a hell of a stir the first time you brooded your way down the main street of Baden. Did anyone actually faint?”

Derek could feel the blood rush to his face. He preferred not to think about the things he overheard. There were a few too many _ride ‘em cowboy_ references for comfort, and a couple of the bolder women he still couldn’t look in the eye to this day. “Of course not.”

“Hmph.” He could tell Stiles was smiling. “Right.”

 

 

He explained about the possible job at the Oldham place once Stiles had finished eating. He stared at Derek for several long moments before he said, “Careful. If I find paid employment I’m way less likely to leave.”

“I think I can live with that,” Derek said, carefully nonchalant even though he could feel his cheeks turning a pleased pink.

 

 

 

The Oldham’s took Stiles on a week’s trial. He went up there for a few hours in the morning and evening and came back smelling of hay and horse manure, and grinning like a loon. It was considerably better than the summer when Stiles had picked up a few shifts at the local pool as a lifeguard and had reeked of sunscreen and chlorine for weeks on end.

But the physical work was tiring him out enough that he sometimes napped after lunch, and was still able to get a fair night’s sleep. The week’s trial turned into a regular arrangement. Derek kept up the steady stream of meals and light conversation, and watched some of the colour come back into the younger man’s face.

Derek ignored the way it made something glow warm in his chest to think that he was somehow responsible for the improvement in Stiles.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

It wasn’t often Derek was surprised by a visitor. He’d learned not to live on high alert like he had for all those years in Beacon Hills, but his senses were what they were and he would usually hear someone approaching the house from a long way away.

But today, of all days. He’d been distracted. He and Stiles had been measuring and discussing and musing about how the support beams for a deck would attach to the existing house, and he’d obviously missed the warning sounds of someone opening his gate and coaxing their car up the driveway.

So he was left to gawk stupidly as a familiar car crested the curve and pulled to a halt behind Derek’s truck. For a second he felt nothing but happy surprise.

“Terry,” he said. From the corner of his eye he saw Stiles go still.

“Hey,” Terry said, swinging out of his car. “Bet you thought you’d escaped me this summer, huh?”

Glancing between the two younger men Derek answered a beat too late, “Uh. Yeah.”  Then he winced internally. His distraction was making him sound guilty and he could feel his face heat. Fuck. He didn’t have anything to apologise for – not to _either_ of the two men looking at him now. He’s not in a relationship, and yet somehow he’s feeling like he’d been caught red-handed – and to top it off he wasn’t even sure which of the two he was meant to feel guilty _for_. His connection to Stiles was so much deeper and more complex, but Terry had been a familiar constant in his life, here in his Montana home, the way Stiles had not.

It was confusing, is what it was. Derek shrugged it off and stepped forward for a quick bro hug. It’d been standard for them since Terry’s third visit. The younger man had given him a long, shrewd look, then simply said, “I’m your only human contact, aren’t I?” and pulled Derek into a quick hug.

“Uh,” Derek said, and waved a hand, “This is-”

“Stiles,” Terry finished for him, then slanted a smile at Derek. “ _Believe_ me, I heard.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hold back the laugh. This town. He ran a hand over his face. “Right. Well.”

“Good to meet you,” Terry said, eyes alight with curiosity as he shook Stiles’s hand.

“Likewise,” Stiles said, and there’s something in his voice that put Derek on immediate alert.

“How are you enjoying Montana?”

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles said. “Glad I’m seeing it in the summer though. I’m a California boy, not used to a lot of snow.”

“Yeah, that was smart,” Terry approved. “Lots of people crack up completely, their first winter here.” He slants a knowing look at Derek.

“I wasn’t _cracking up_ ,” Derek said.

“You had the world’s most massive beard, like _that_ was going to keep you warm,” Terry said. “And your woodpile wouldn’t have lasted three days. If I hadn’t come up here you’d probably have frozen to death.” He reached back into the car and produced a huge bag of pork rinds, and a shopping bag which probably held a cake or ice cream of some kind. “Speaking of-” he flung the pork rinds toward Derek, who caught it one handed, unable to suppress the grin. Pork rinds were his newly-discovered kryptonite. He bought his own, but somehow the packets just turned up… empty.

“Listen, I’m gonna take a walk,” Stiles said out of nowhere.

“What?” Derek’s head snapped around and he blinked.

“Yeah. I’ve been meaning to walk the fence line since I got here, and I’m sure you guys want to catch up.”

There was a snap in his voice that had Derek reeling back on automatic.

“Uhh,” Terry said, glancing between them.

“I’ve got my phone,” Stiles drew it out of his jeans pocket and wiggled it. “I promise not to go too far.”

He nodded at Terry and turned to go, hesitating only long enough to reach out and snag his plaid overshirt from where it had hung over the back of an Adirondack chair.

And he strode off without another word.

 

 

 

There was a long, awkward silence as Derek stared dumbly after Stiles.

Then Terry said, “Soooo…”

Derek blinked and turned to look at him. “I. I don’t know what.”

“So, wow… he _really_ hates my guts,” Terry said.

“What? No he doesn’t.”

“Derek,” Terry said pityingly. “He really, really does. I assume he’s heard from someone I town that we’re involved?”

“No- I mean. He might have thought that. Once? But I told him we weren’t.” And Derek hadn’t given it another thought. And surely even if Stiles did think there was something going on, it was _none of his frigging business,_ he thought, getting increasingly indignant. Stiles had evidently been sleeping his way through half of Beacon Hills, _where the hell did he get off-_

“Well, I guess it’s _possible_ he just didn’t like me, but… I mean. No. I’m very charming,” Terry said, and cracked a little grin.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Come inside,” he said, hoping to leave the vexing question of Stiles behind for a while. “Tell me about your dig and all your terrible life choices.”

“Oh sure, like we’re just going to talk about _me_ all afternoon,” Terry muttered. But he followed Derek into the house just the same.

 

 

 

“So… Sue from the Post Office said she hadn’t seen Stiles for a couple of days,” Terry began after they’d thoroughly discussed the dig in Mexico, Terry’s choice of electives for the next semester and the replacement bridge on the western side of town that was taking eleven times longer to build than it should.

Derek lowered his beer and focused his eyes on the floor.

“Oh?”

“Derek.”

He sighed. “I brought him up here a few days ago. To stay.”

He darted a glance up at Terry, saw his brows lift, though the younger man said nothing.

“He wasn’t sleeping,” Derek said defensively. “Wasn’t adjusting well to the change, I guess. I thought having someone familiar around would help.”

“And has it?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

Terry nodded. “Okay.” There was a long pause, and then he said carefully, “Can you tell me? What happened with the two of you?”

Derek shrugged.

“Come on. Derek. You’re clearly still in l-” Derek was on his feet and moving before his mind had really processed what he was doing. In the kitchen, he paused, staring around at the familiar space before finally heading to the deep freeze. He was drawing a package of meatballs out when he heard Terry’s footsteps in the hallway, slow and uncertain. By the time Terry reached the kitchen Derek had his heartbeat under control again.

“Okay,” Terry said slowly. “Off limits. Understood.”

Derek kept his eyes on his hands as he went through the familiar motions of retrieving ingredients for making red sauce, letting the meatballs defrost in a sunny spot on the bench. The silence went on for a long time, then he took a long, careful breath and said quietly, “His best friend’s name is Scott. They’ve known each other their whole lives, close as brothers.”

Behind him, Terry slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar and kept silent.

“Scott and I didn’t get along. He hated me, and everything I said seemed to rub him the wrong way.” He shrugged. “We made it work as best we could, but there was always that potential for trouble simmering away.”

He got started on the onions, needing to keep his hands busy. “Scott was trying to talk Stiles into a… job offer. It was important, but dangerous. I told Stiles I couldn’t support that choice. I’d lost family members to exactly that kind of job. It was a deal breaker for me. I was trying to find a way to explain it when… well. Suddenly explaining my position didn’t matter anymore.”

“He took the job?” Terry said slowly, voice incredulous.

Derek shrugged, started the oil heating. “He wanted to help his friend. He trusted Scott a great deal, and he thought I would change my mind, once it was a fait accompli.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t,” Derek said with finality. “I _couldn’t_. I packed up and left, and until this year I hadn’t seen or heard from him again.”

Terry stared at him for a long time. “You’re leaving stuff out of that story, obviously.”

Derek almost smiled. “It’s complicated. But yes.”

 

 

 

Terry let it be for a while, mercifully. He kept up the easy, undemanding conversation they usually have, arguing about the TV shows he’s tried to convince Derek to watch and sharing his favourite quotes from the ones where he succeeded. He mentioned briefly that his ex, Simon, had called twice in the last month, and Derek merely grunted at the news. They’ve had long, exhaustive conversations about the ex. No need to go over it again.

Dinner was close to ready by the time Derek tuned in to a familiar heartbeat, getting closer, and something in him unwound at hearing it. He hid the relief he knew was showing on his face by ducking under the bench to pull out plates, and slid them across the kitchen counter to Terry. “We’ll set a place for Stiles,” Derek said, and shrugged.

Terry raised his brows but complied, and set the table in silence while Derek re-checked the garlic bread, stirred the pasta and waited.

Eventually Terry made a small sound, and said, “I guess it’s three for dinner, after all.”

Derek turned, watched Stiles pace forward from the treeline, framed by the huge expanse of glass that had cost Derek a ridiculous amount of money to install and triple-glaze.

 

 

 

In the doorway, Stiles hesitated, and Derek heard him take a slow, deep breath before he came into the room, heading for Terry, who turned and froze under the taller man’s gaze.

“Hey,” Stiles said, and lifted a hand to cup the back of his neck. “Listen, uh. Sorry about earlier. I uh. Was in a bad head space, I guess you could say? So. Sorry if I was- rude.”

“Uhh,” Terry said. “No, man, um.” He shot a quick look at Derek.

Stiles laughed a little, “No, I was. And I apologise. Can we start over maybe?”

“Sure,” Terry said, blinking.

“Hi,” he said, and extended a hand, smiling sheepishly. “I’m Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

“Same.”

Derek watched this with mixed emotions. He wanted them to get along, of course he did, but something about Stiles’ transformation made him uneasy. Stiles glanced at him, and their eyes locked. He watched something flicker over the younger man’s face, shoulders shifting, arms pulling in tight to the side of his body.

Derek let out a breath and said, “Showing up just in time for food, as usual.”

He could see the wry recognition on Stiles’ face, the understanding that Derek would be pursuing this later, but right now, with Terry watching them both avidly, the younger man just shrugged and said, “What can I say? I’ve always had excellent timing.”

Dinner went well. Derek sat back and watched, trying to relax.

They weren’t really all that similar. _Thank God,_ Derek thought. That would have been really fucking awkward, even if only inside Derek’s head, to compare the two. But they shared enough points of common interest that conversation flowed easily, now that Stiles had let go of whatever had wound him so tight earlier.

Stiles, of course, can talk like it’s an Olympic sport, and Derek was careful to raise a few topics he was guessing would be a hit, like _Brooklyn Nine Nine_. And, oddly enough, the two of them have  strong opinions on many of the National Parks scattered throughout the western states.

It was the nicest meal Derek had shared in years.

 

 

 

“I hate him,” Stiles bit out. Derek straightened from stacking the dishwasher and gaped at him.

_“Terry?”_

Stiles’ eyes were glittering, his hands moving restlessly.

“Stiles,” Derek said, “Terry and I aren’t- we’ve never-”

“I know.”

Derek frowned. “But back in Beacon Hills you said-”

“Yes, I did. I jumped to a stupid conclusion based on incomplete information. But you were obviously telling the truth. I believe that you were never involved.”

“O-kaay,” Derek said, still pissed. “Then why-” he stopped when Stiles met his eyes.

“I told you I was fucked up,” he said, matter of fact. “Doesn’t matter if you slept together or not, I can still hate him.”

Derek frowned.

Stiles bared his teeth in a grin, and there was nothing nice about it. “He got out of his car and you were glad to see him. Your whole face lit up.”

“I- yes.”

“He hugged you. You hugged him back.”

“He’s my _friend_ , Stiles,” Derek snapped. _Jesus_..”

Stiles looked away. “He made you laugh,” he muttered, low.

Mouth already open to reply, Derek stopped at the sound of Stiles’s voice - raw and dangerous. He had never in a million years dreamed Stiles could sound that way.

 _“I_ used to make you laugh.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, elbows poking out wildly. The body language was so familiar, but the man in front of him was in many ways a stranger. “Remember?”

“I remember.” _Of course I remember_ _._

“But not anymore.”

There was silence.

“Terry knows how to make you laugh. _Terry_ brought you snack food and teases you with in-jokes I don’t know. All of that used to be mine-”

“That hasn’t been true for _years_ , Stiles.” It wasn’t helpful, but Derek had to say it.

“Oh I know that. I know you’re not mine anymore and I know I caused it.” He laughed, and there was a reckless note to it that made every hair on Derek’s body stand on end. “Doesn’t change anything. Everything being my fault doesn’t mean I can’t hate him for knowing parts of you I don’t.” He swung his head around, his gaze pinning Derek down, and he said, voice soft and dark, “Just like there’s parts of me you wouldn’t recognize in a million years, Derek. Parts you don’t ever _want_ to know.”

His mouth twisted, then, and he turned away. He was almost through the door by the time Derek found his voice.

“I’m not scared of you,” Derek told him.

For a moment those words trembled in the air, and then Stiles let out a tired bark of what might have been laughter. “Dude,” he said. “Do not make me go Yoda on you.”

 _You will be_ , is what he means. _You will be._

Derek stared at the empty doorway for a long time after Stiles had softly – no temper in it – closed his bedroom door.

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

Derek wasn’t sure why it was today, of all days, that he noticed. Whether Stiles got sloppy or whether Derek was just more on alert after last night’s… outburst. But he caught a faint suggestion of a scent he would never in a million years forget.

Stiles’ blood.

“What-” Derek began, and automatically reached out to snag the younger man’s arm. The minute his hand closed around the elbow Stiles stiffened. There was a flash of pain over his face, which he covered so quickly Derek could almost pretend he didn’t see it.

“What?” His tone was perfect. Nonchalant and gently enquiring but he was also turning carefully, body completely controlled.

For a moment Derek just stared, his hand still wrapped around Stiles’ elbow. He considered for a moment, thought about letting it go, then took a slow breath.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“Sorry?” Stiles’ brow wrinkled in polite confusion.

Derek wasn’t fooled.

“Please tell me the truth,” he said, as calm as he can be, under the circumstances.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Stiles said. His heart had sped up a little, but nothing to really give him away. Derek hadn’t expected him to. He knew the skills Stiles had taught himself to survive – or, well, he could guess. Has spent many long nights torturing himself, imagining the many ways Stiles would have to change to survive as an Emissary.

“Do _not_ bullshit me. I can smell blood. _Your_ blood.”

Stiles gave him one slow blink. “ _Oh_. Uh.”

Derek felt a flash of temper and his fingers tightened just slightly. Just a _little_. Just enough, apparently, to hurt Stiles further, though the only sign was his jaw tightening and the jump in his heart rate.

Derek let go of him as though he’d been burned. “Sorry,” he stammered, and backed away, “Shit. Sorry.”

Stiles’ mouth was already open to say something – something cutting, no doubt, but the sudden apology wrong-footed him. “I- no, it’s okay, I mean-”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Derek said, and stepped back. His stomach churned. He didn’t want to be that guy, hurting someone to make them give him answers. He’d scared himself, a little, back in Beacon Hills, with all the things he’d have happily done to that asshole Otis. And he’s still a little scared to admit how big a part of him wishes he’d gotten the chance to punish the traitor the way he’d wanted to.

“Derek, no,” Stiles said, hand reaching out. “It’s fine, really.”

They stared at one another, the silence awkward, and then Stiles sighed. “Shit,” he said softly. “Don’t give me that look, like you’ve done something terrible. That’s dirty pool, Derek. Look. It’s really no big deal.”

Derek stayed where he was.

On a long, slow breath, Stiles shrugged out of his overshirt. The three-quarter sleeve t-shirt beneath didn’t show a whole lot more, but then he closed his eyes and shoved one sleeve up – his left – and under that was a bandage, expertly wrapped, covering the crook of his elbow.

“You got hurt yesterday?”

Stiles was staring at the floor, jaw flexing. He turned his head toward Derek and the wolf just _knew_ whatever he said next would be a lie.

“How did you get hurt yesterday? And why didn’t you say anything when you got back?”

“It’s no big deal,” Stiles said easily.

“Did you fall? Get snagged on a fence?”

Stiles met his eyes, finally.

“It’s really nothing to worry about, Derek.”

Oh and that was guaranteed to make Derek fucking worry, that was. “Answer the _question,_ Stiles.”

He let out a slow breath. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Derek was shaking his head before Stiles even finished speaking. “No. No, I’m not.”

Stiles made a face and then shrugged. “Come on then, I’ll show you, I guess.” He grabbed his overshirt and shrugged it on as he led the way out of the house. They walked in the same direction Stiles had taken yesterday, Derek noted, and after a few minutes of walking in silence he began to detect faint traces of that same scent.

“You cut yourself,” Derek said. His mind was beginning to piece things together and he can’t believe he’d been so stupid, so _naïve._

Of course it hadn’t been an accident.

Stiles shrugged.

“You – for _spellwork?_ ” he asked, thinking it through aloud. “You’re using your own blood for spellwork.”

“I’ve learned a few things over the years,” Stiles replied. “Mostly out of necessity.”

“Didn’t it hurt?” Derek asked. Over the years he’d gained some familiarity with humans and the way their bodies deal with injury. It takes time, it hurts for longer than Derek can believe, sometimes, and it was to be avoided if at all possible.

More specifically, he knew _(thought he knew?)_ that Stiles didn’t much like being hurt, and avoided it where possible.

“I guess.”

“You guess.” They finally came to a pause near a fencepost, and Derek tried not to breathe in the scent of Stiles’s blood. After a moment, Derek turned to the left and began walking beside the fence. He could tell Stiles turned right yesterday, and he was not keen to retrace steps that were tainted with the younger man’s blood.

“I don’t… feel anything much anymore,” Stiles said, almost carelessly. He shrugged. “It’s just. Numb. I don’t know.”

Derek stared at him, mouth agape, and Stiles only then seemed to realize how it sounded. “Look, it’s not like I’m going around doing this for fun. I only do it if I have to, and I do it for a very good reason.”

“You’re making a boundary line,” Derek said, the realization breaking over his mind as he said it.

Stiles shrugged.

“Against what?”

“What?”

“What are you worried about? What do you think is going to find you here? Is there someone specific hunting you?”

“Wha- you think there’s _one_ thing?” Stiles blurted. He seemed caught between laughter and disbelief. “What am I guarding against, Derek?” He threw his hands out.

“Everything. I’m guarding against fucking _everything_ , Derek. This is what life has taught me.”

“That’s not possible,” Derek said blankly. He was not a mage by any means, but he picked up enough from growing up in the Hale household to know that magical protection had to be specifically targeted. Like mountain ash guards against ‘wolves and shifters, salt keeps out demons, mistletoe for witches – there’s no one type of protection that does everything.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said darkly. “I found a way.”

 _That_ , Derek believed. Stiles had brains and will and a flexible attitude to rules.

“And the way you found was to use your own blood.”

Stiles shrugged. “Works.”

 _“How much,”_ Derek demanded, suddenly furious. “How much of your blood have you poured out into Beacon Hills. _Literally_.”

Stiles blinked, taken aback. “Uh, I don’t-”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“A couple of y- look, Derek, this is not a big deal.”

“Not a-”

“It’s a naturally renewable resource,” Stiles offered, trying for a charming grin. It was about the stupidest tactic he could possibly try, with the way Derek was currently feeling. “I’m careful, I mean, I don’t put myself at risk-”

“Other than literally _bleeding yourself dry_ for the pack,” Derek finished for him.

“There’s no ‘bleeding myself dry’” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Dramatic much?”

“Right,” Derek said. “So you measure how much you’re taking.”

“Yes.”

“And you have someone supervise you. A medical professional.”

Stiles hesitated. “Uh.”

“Jesus _Christ!”_

“Look, Derek,” Stiles said. “This is ridiculous. You’re getting upset over stuff I’ve been doing for years and that has never hurt me-”

“So you’ve never passed out from taking too much.”

Stiles hesitated. Derek knew he was going to lie before he even opened his mouth.

“Christ,” Derek gritted out, turning away. Right now he would give everything he owned to punch Scott McCall right in the mouth.

“Derek,” Stiles said, “I am fine. I am standing right in front of you and I am perfectly-”

“You are bleeding _right now,_ Stiles,” Derek said. “And you have every intention of continuing to do this.”

There’s silence.

“Don’t you.”

Stiles swallowed. All at once the defiance melted out of him and he looked away. He passed a hand over his face. “I have to,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I have to- I can’t _sleep_. Or think, I can’t-” he flailed, gestured wildly around himself. “You saw what  a mess I was, in town.”

“I thought you were doing better, out here, though,” Derek replied.

“I am,” he said, but there’s no conviction in his voice. “I am,” he said, more firmly. “It’s just. I still – I don’t feel- I need-”

Then he looked down at his feet.

“So you can’t sleep without a solid perimeter,” Derek said slowly, thinking aloud. “You use it like – what, an early warning system?”

One thin shoulder lifted. “I guess. It’s part perimeter fence and part trap. Some things would be caught there, if their power wasn’t able to overcome mine.”

They stood there in silence for a few minutes. Derek thought rapidly. “Does it have to be your blood?”

Stiles blinked up at him. “What?”

“Does it have to be _your_ blood?”

“I- who else?” Stiles said blankly.

Derek raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I mean,” Stiles was nonplussed. “But the warning is for me.”

For a moment Derek wanted to roll his eyes. “But there’s nothing to actually be warned about, is there? No-one knows you’re here, and as far as anyone knows there’s no reason for anyone or anything to be after you anyway. Right?”

“I …guess,” Stiles said. It was pretty obvious he didn’t really believe that.

Derek pressed on anyway. “So this is really just peace of mind. Something to let you sleep at night. Literally.”

Stiles turned his head away. “Come on, Derek,” Stiles said, “it’s just not that simple.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Stiles turned and met his eyes. “I’m pretty friggin broken, Derek.”

“You’re not broken.”

“Yeah, I am,” Stiles said. “If I need a blood sacrifice from you to allow me to sleep at night, _yes I am._ ”

There’s silence for a long time before Derek said. “I still have nightmares about the fire. I hear them, I, the screaming, and I, the smell-”

He stopped, swallowing the rush of saliva that precedes throwing up. Stiles didn’t say anything.

“I understand not being able to let go of past trauma, Stiles,” he said, more gently. “I understand feeling like things can go wrong at any second. It’s… fresher for you than it is for me, but I haven’t forgotten, and I don’t think you’re over-reacting, or crazy, or weak, or whatever stupid thing you’re telling yourself.”

“I don’t feel right about taking your blood,” he said finally.

Derek tried another tack. “This is my land. Surely if anyone is getting a heads-up about trespassers it should be me?”

“I… but I’m the one who-”

“I am not letting this hurt you anymore,” Derek said with finality. He reached out and wraps a gentle hand around Stiles’ upper arm, careful not to brush against the fresh wound. “You’re not an Emissary any more, but it’s still hurting you. I can’t stand by and let that happen. Can you understand that?”

Stiles didn’t want to admit it, but Derek could see he _did_ understand.

“Tomorrow,” Derek said after a long, awkward silence. “We’ll go for a walk tomorrow and do it then.”

Stiles turned to watch him for a moment, eyes roaming over Derek’s face. He said nothing when he finally turned away, but Derek knew him far too well to think that meant anything like agreement.

 

 

 

“How do you need it?”

“What?”

“As in – do you collect it in a bottle or something, or does it just drip into the dirt?”

Stiles shook his head, hard. “No, it. I mean.” He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together. “On my fingers. I, I draw with it.”

“Okay.” And Derek held out his arm, steady and sure, watched Stiles’ face as he drew out the knife and brought it close to Derek’s skin. He was pretty sure he knew before Stiles did that the younger man wouldn’t be able to do it.

“I can’t. Derek, I _can’t,”_ he said wretchedly, as though he was denying the wolf a life saving cure.

Derek watched him, then said, “If this was your own arm you’d already have sliced it open.”

Stiles shrugged. “That’s – I’m used to it.”

“That’s _what_?”

Stiles finally looked at him.

“What were you really going to say just then? That’s…”

His mouth twists and he looked away. “That’s-” he shrugged.

Derek waits.

“That’s what I’m for,” Stiles finally said, voice low. He knew Derek wouldn’t like that.

Derek took in a long breath and bit his lip, choking back everything he wanted to say to that.

Then he reached out for Stiles’ arm and gently pushed at the sleeve until the neat white dressing was visible. Did the same for the other arm. There were fewer scars there, Stiles protecting his dominant arm, he guessed, but enough that it meant he’d had to use both arms for something in a short time frame.

It wasn’t bad scarring, fine lines that would be mostly invisible to human eyes, but out here in the strong Montana sunlight, with Derek’s eyes, he could see just how many times Stiles cut himself open for the pack.

He traced them gently with a finger, telling Stiles without words what he was seeing. Stiles curled his shoulders down and hunched over his arm, head down, when Derek finally said, “If I needed it, Stiles, I’m fairly sure you’d remove your own lung without an anaesthetic.” Stiles didn’t move. “Do you understand that I would do the same for you?”

Stiles breath caught, hitched. “But I don’t _need_ this,” he said. “It’s not really going to accomplish anything. It’s a placebo.”

“The perimeter is real, isn’t it? Once you've cast the spellwork, the potential for warning and protection is there, right?”

“But there’s nothing coming. We both know that.”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t, actually. Historically that has not been true of my life. And even if it is true, and no-one is looking for either of us, it doesn’t hurt to have a warning in place, does it?”

“But I can’t do it,” Stiles said, voice breaking. “Derek, I _can’t.”_

Derek ran his thumbs over each of Stiles’s scars. This was almost the most they’d touched since he arrived. “And Stiles,” he said, slowly and deliberately, _“I can’t watch you do this_.” The same words he’d used back in Beacon Hills when all this started, and he knew Stiles caught it immediately by the way his whole body stilled.

“Please let me do this for you,” Derek said. “Please, let someone else protect you, just this once.”

Stiles’ whole body was shaking.

“I’ll heal before we even get back to the house, Stiles,” Derek went on. “You know that.”

Stiles was breathing shakily as he drew out the knife, but he managed to slice into Derek’s forearm steadily enough. He didn’t speak to Derek, didn’t look up, just dipped his fingers in the blood welling up and drew on the fencepost with shaking fingers.

They walked on, another fifty yards or so, and Stiles repeated the process. Two, three, five times more, and then Stiles halted. “That’s enough,” he managed to say, though he had to clear his throat several times before he could say it.

Neither of them mentioned the tears running down Stiles’s face the entire time. He let them fall, ignored them completely, but an hour later back at the house, those tears kept running the way Derek’s blood did not.

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

It was well past midnight, that combination of utter dark and utter stillness that makes stupid decisions seem like a great idea. Which was probably why Derek didn’t just roll over and try to go back to sleep when he heard Stiles leave his room and pad softly out to the living area.

The soft patter of rain started as he sat up, and it took about three seconds for him to think about what was going to happen if he went out there.

He went anyway.

 

 

He could tell by the line of Stiles’ body that the younger man knew Derek was there.

“Can’t sleep?” he murmured.

There was silence, and then Stiles tilted his head to one side, the movement somehow sinuous and dangerous. Derek felt his breath catch in his throat. “A little more complicated than that.”

“Uh,” Derek said stupidly. “Do you um, need-“ and then he stopped, abruptly, aware of how stupid it was to start a sentence with those particular words, in the middle of the night, with Stiles looking at him like that.

“Let me put it this way, Derek,” Stiles said mockingly, “not all of us have conquered the wants and needs of our bodies the way you have.”

He turned, then, all the long lines of him outlined against the glass, and Derek sucked in a breath when he saw the way Stiles was looking at him, the unmistakable line of his erection in his soft sleep pants, caught his elevated heartbeat.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmured. “I’m horny.”

The words sat there between them, stark and honest, and Derek swallowed. Still he didn’t manage to speak.

“I could take care of it myself, it’s not like I’ve forgotten how,” Stiles said wryly.

“But that’s not what you’re used to, is it,” Derek replied. He hasn’t forgotten Otis saying _suck off any guy who asked him_. He’s not sure he’ll ever forget it.

“No,” Stiles replied flatly. “No it’s not.” He tilted his head, then, and Derek knew, suddenly, this was about to get nasty.

“I could ask you if there are places guys go around here to get off anonymously together, but you genuinely wouldn’t know, would you. _Four years_ and you’ve lived like a frigging monk the whole time.”

Derek took a step back. “No,” he said faintly. “No I don’t know if there are places to go around here.”

Stiles looked away, and Derek watched the outline of his throat as he swallowed. There was a stark silence, and then he burst out, “Jesus, don’t you ever just want to be _touched?”_

“Of _course_ I do,” Derek snapped back, emotions raw and rising fast. “Fucking _hell_ Stiles, I’m not actually a robot, no matter what Scott’s always believed, and I’d have thought that you of all people would know that. _Of course_ I miss being touched.” He had to stop for breath then, and Stiles just stared at him, naked emotions rioting over his face.

The words just kept slipping out of Derek, impossible to hold back. He’d been holding back for _years_ , it felt like, and now the time was up. “But I was so angry for so long-” He stopped. Then his mouth twisted and he slammed his hand, open palmed, against the solid timber wall. “I couldn’t actually trust myself to get that close to another human being – is that what you wanted to know? I genuinely didn’t know what I would fucking do if I got too close to a random stranger when a random stranger was the very _last_ fucking thing I wanted.” He was panting by the time he got to the end of that, suddenly doused in anger all over again.

It was quiet for long enough after his revelation that Derek was thinking clearly again.

“And then you get used to it, I guess,” Stiles said softly. He’s curled in on himself a little, still looking away.

Oh shit, Derek thought. _Shit_. He’d been doing so well in his denial until this moment. But now he’s looking at Stiles and he can see where this is going and he knows full fucking well that he’s not strong enough to say no. That he probably never stood the least chance of saying no to Stiles, no matter how much it might seem like the logical or smart thing to do.

Stalling, Derek shrugged. “It was just easier.”

It’s not easy right _now_ , of course. Of fucking _course_ his body had begun to shrug off the learned touch starvation the moment Stiles had hit town. He’s been more aroused in the past month than in the entire year that had preceded it. Which is probably what made him open his mouth and say, “So now it’s only random strangers for you? No-one you know or care about?”

Stiles whipped his head around and pinned Derek with a look. _“What?”_

His skin was prickling all over with embarrassment. Jesus. He shook his head. “Nothing, it’s-”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You’re standing there thinking I don’t _want_ you? Derek, you can’t possibly be this stupid. _Of course_ I want you. I’ve wanted you every second of every day that I’ve _known_ you. I can’t even remember what it’s like to be turned on anymore without a picture of you in my head. Why the _fuck_ do you think I’m wandering around your house in the middle of the night, jumping out of my skin with how badly I want to touch you?”

“Then why...”

“Because I can’t imagine a single reason why you’d _let_ me,” Stiles said baldly. “I don’t get why you’ve let me stay in this county, let alone _in your house_. I cannot comprehend why you don’t hate me. _I_ hate me.”

Derek sucked in a breath at that, and Stiles’s head jerked back a little, an obvious tell that he hadn’t meant to be quite that honest.

For a moment they just stared at one another, Stiles breathing unsteadily and Derek’s heart hammering in his chest.

 _I hate me._ He thought about that, about Stiles blaming himself, cutting into a vein and watching the blood drop to the forest floor, about Stiles in a nightclub somewhere, closing his eyes and giving himself up to be used.

 _Of course I want you._ The words echoed in his head. Stiles was here, safe and whole and reaching out for Derek with words, if not his hands.

Derek felt his body shift position on instinct, head dropping slightly, eyes fixed on Stiles, shoulders widening, muscles tightening. He stalked forward, the want inside him swelling up until his skin felt tight and aching.

Stiles waited, swallowing hard, heart rate kicking into high gear and then Derek was _there_ , right up in his space, pressing their bodies together.

Stiles lets out a low moan, his breath coming fast. “Fuck,” he grits out. “ _Oh_ fuck.”

For a moment they’re just pressed together, bare chest to bare chest, the cool glass behind Stiles taking their weight.

 _This isn’t going to solve anything,_ Derek thought despairingly. Not that he cares about that right now.

“Do whatever you want to me,” Stiles whispered. “Anything, Derek. Anything you want.”

Derek’s cock jumped in his pants, and he felt the breathy laugh that escaped Stiles.

But in the back of his head Derek was hesitating. _Do things to me_ , Stiles was saying. _Use me_.

Derek leaned back for a second and opens his eyes that had closed under the onslaught of _so much Stiles_ – the warm skin, the _scent_ of him. He took in the expression on the younger man’s face, hunger yes, but something else flickering in his eyes.

 _Part of the punishment?_ Derek wondered. Was that what all the anonymous encounters gave him? Letting people treat him however they liked because he’d screwed up and ruined something precious?

Well, Derek was not some horny asshole wandering the clubs, and he was suddenly pissed that Stiles wanted to act like he was. But then, he’d warned Derek, hadn’t he?

_There’s parts of me you wouldn’t recognize in a million years, Derek. Parts you don’t ever want to know_

He took a deep breath to remind himself of who he was with, and brought his arms up, yanking Stiles close with more strength than he’d usually allow himself. One hand splayed out over Stiles’ bare back, possessive and firm, and Stiles moaned low in his throat, lets his head fall back to rest against the glass. Derek leaned in and bites gently at the perfect line of his throat, indulging himself for just a moment, knowing Stiles had done that on purpose, or had fallen back on old habits, maybe, from all the years before.

Then he lifted his head and stared at Stiles’ face. Stiles stared back, breath coming quick, bottom lip caught under his teeth. “Anything,” he breathes.

Derek palmed his face, grip strong, and Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut. Everything about him was waiting, yielding. Wanting.

Derek leaned in and touched his mouth to Stiles. Gently.

So gently, barely a touch.

Like a first kiss, innocent. Careful.

Derek kissed Stiles like he’s precious, like he _matters_ , like sex is a distant prospect on the horizon, and he can feel the reaction in Stiles, the rejection of it.

He pulls back, just enough, and watches.

“What,” Stiles blinked. “Derek, what are you doing?”

“Whatever I want,” Derek said simply. “That’s what you said I could have.”

“And you want to kiss me like an Edwardian novel.”

“For starters,” Derek said, and tilted his head.

Stiles leaned back a little, away from the next kiss. “Derek, I am telling you, you can fuck me raw, you can shove your dick down my throat if you want. I don’t need to be wooed.”

Derek’s eyebrow lifted. He waited, let that statement hang in the air between them, then said, “So it’s your way or the highway?”

“I- what? No, I just.” Stiles shrugged helplessly. “Don’t you want to fuck? To get your dick sucked at the very least?”

“Sure,” Derek said, and tried desperately to keep out of his voice any indicator of how very hard his dick was throbbing in his pants. “Eventually.”

Stiles stared at him, mouth open.

“You got somewhere to be?” Derek asked. “Some appointment I don’t know about?”

“I... no, of course not. I just-”

For a moment Derek thought he’d actually admit it, say something honest for fucking once. But then he took a breath and shrugged, mouth curling up into a smile.

“Okay, sure, you want to make out like high school? Let’s do this.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

Sometimes it hurt just to look at Derek.

 _As it should,_ the angry voice in Stiles’ head told him.

Derek was  different, but not. He was more like the surly asshole they met immediately after Laura’s death, while Peter was rampaging around Beacon Hills. But in other ways, he was… quieter. Calmer. Like he wasn’t angry, exactly, about his life. Resigned. Maybe that was the word.

Stiles was being punished every time he looked at him, and rightfully so.

But right now – right now those hands, and that mouth, were taking away all the pain.

Derek was pressing him against the glass, firm and commanding and shit, it was pressing Stiles’s buttons _just right_.

Of course, the down side to that was he was also taking down all of Stiles’s walls, the defences he spent many painful years building, and words were falling out of his mouth, the kind of unvarnished truth he’d normally hoard like a dragon hoards gold.

“Why don’t you hate me, you should _hate_ me.”

“I could never hate you.”

 _“Don’t_ lie to me,” Stiles said, and he’s no longer half-mumbling, suddenly he’s all sharp edges. His hand on Derek’s shoulder grips hard instead of flexing in time with his kissed. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ lie-”

Derek stopped. Looked him in the eye. “I hated what you did. The choice you made. Not you – _never_ you. I couldn’t.” His voice was raw, painfully honest.

Stiles didn’t deserve to hear it.

“But I got all that out of my system in those years when we were apart, Stiles. I knew _that_ the minute I saw you in Beacon Hills again. There’s no way I could have you here with me, right now and hate you, whether you’re in my arms or standing in the middle of the Post Office.”

Stiles froze, felt everything inside him go cold. No, that’s not-

“Don’t-” he said, involuntary, and shit, he was losing his edge, he was just saying whatever he felt and those weren’t mistakes Stiles could afford to make. Not the Stiles he was now. He licked his lips and tried for matter of fact. “You don’t have to try and make me feel better, I know what I did, I know what I deserve-”

“I met Ned, you know.”

Stiles went still. Seconds ticked by and then he turned his head slowly, letting those thoughts align in his head, two worlds colliding that he’d tried so very, very hard to ensure would always remain separate. _What?_

“He came by the cottage one night, when you were sick.”

“For- he _what?_ _Why?”_

“To meet the bogeyman.” Derek shrugged. “That was how he put it, anyway.”

Stiles just stared. He was still hard, body too hot and heart pounding, but now there was a slow build of pressure in his chest that was in no way sexual. He was still trying to process the image of Derek and Ned, casually chatting while Stiles fought for his life against an unknown poison. Then Derek said-

“He seemed like a nice enough guy.”

Stiles almost choked, wrongfooted again.  “He was- he. He _is.”_

“But you wouldn’t let yourself be happy with him.”

He almost laughed. The hand on Derek’s shoulder spasmed hard, would have hurt anyone who wasn’t a wolf. “ _Let_ myself?” he pushed, wanting some space between them, “Let myself be _happy?”_ and shit, he was more out of control than he’d known, he’s _furious_ , Stiles realized suddenly, spoiling for a fight and looking at the one person in the world who didn’t deserve it, the one person he’d always trusted with everything – even his own ugly thoughts and his worst impulses.

Bad combination.

It spilled out anyway, “What fucking right did I have to be _happy_ , Derek?”

Derek just watched him, body still so close, so dear, eyes too wise for Stiles’ comfort.

 _“I_ did this,” Stiles spat. “I did this to us. To _you_. To my _Dad_. I fucking, thought I was so smart, thought I’d found a shortcut, I was a selfish piece of _shit_ , and I-”

He broke off, breathing heavily, trying to hold it all behind his teeth, the ugly thoughts, the blame and the regret and the furious anguish of making such a stupid mistake with something he’d valued so highly.

“Don’t stop now,” Derek said, soft, and Stiles hated him for it. “Let it all out.”

Stiles shook his head, enraged, beyond words. “No. _No._ You don’t get to, I’m not-” and he shoved again, harder this time, hard enough to move Derek back a little, but only a little and Stiles was suddenly done, _so_ done. He hit out, an open handed strike that forced Derek back a step. “Let me _go,”_ he gasped, still tangled up in Derek. “Let me _go,_ damn you, I need-”

“I’m not holding you, Stiles,” Derek said, voice still calm but his breath was coming faster and Stiles looked up, realized with a start that he was still gripping Derek’s waist. Pushing him away with one hand and keeping hold with the other and what is his life, when did Stiles become such a fucking cliché-

A startled, angry bark of laughter escaped him. It was not a happy sound. “What,” he said, “Derek, what.”

Those multicoloured eyes met his, and once more he was struck by how wise Derek seemed, how much older, suddenly, than Stiles felt. Stiles felt like an out of control kid again, making all the wrong choices, doing all the wrong things, he’s a mess, he’s a fucking _crime scene_ and he’s unloading all over Derek, again.

“I’m here because I want to be here, Stiles,” Derek said. “Like I’ve always been. And you’re not putting anything on me I didn’t sign up for.”

“Not _this,”_ Stiles spat. “You didn’t sign up for this, for some guy who always makes the wrong fucking choice, and can’t even keep his shit together, some asshole who’s sucked more dicks than-”

“So why did you?” Derek interrupted. “Why do that, Stiles? Why keep going back if it bothered you so much?”

 _“Why?”_ Stiles bared his teeth at Derek, “Why did I keep going back and getting on my knees for strangers? Maybe I just liked it that much, Derek, ever think of that?”

“Tell me _why,”_ Derek said, ignoring the obvious baiting. His hands gripped Stiles’s arms and he gave him a tiny shake, still controlling his strength. “Tell me why you went from one stranger to another, if you hated it.”

“Because I could _disappear_ ,” Stiles shouted, “Jesus _fuck_ , I could close my eyes and just – they could almost be you, if I concentrated, if I let myself pretend-”

That did get a reaction from Derek, a quick intake of breath like he’d been punched.

 _Yeah,_ sneered that nasty part of Stiles that will never truly leave him. _How’s_ that _for truth?_ God, he hated himself, sometimes, hated what he’d become, hated that he was the reason all of this happened. He’d been such a trusting moronic little baby, soft and so sure he was the smartest guy in the room, that he could figure out a way out of the minefield that was Derek and Scott. Cocky. _Reckless_ -

“Stop,” Derek said suddenly. “Whatever you’re thinking, just stop it.”

“So my thoughts aren’t my own anymore?” Stiles shot back on automatic. God, he’d gotten good at the fight. Sometimes it was like it’s all he knew anymore.

Derek stepped in close again, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Stiles’s head. “Whatever you’re telling yourself right now isn’t helpful. I can tell.”

He laughed at that one. “My thoughts are never helpful, Derek,” Stiles told him, unintentionally honest.

Derek gave him a long, thoughtful look, and then said, “Come to bed.”

Stiles gaped at him.

“Sleep with me,” Derek clarified. “No sex. Just. I want you near me.”

 _Why?_ Stiles thought again, automatically. This was all too much- too much truth, too much honest emotion. He was dizzy and confused and so _tired_.

Derek leaned in and rested their foreheads together. “Stiles. Come to bed.”

And Stiles had no defence against that.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

So somehow that became a thing.

There were still nightmares, occasionally, but they discovered that a weird combination of walking the boundary line of Derek’s property to renew the blood-wards, and sharing a midnight snack after helped them both fall back to sleep.

Derek’s bed was now Stiles’s bed, and there was a _lot_ of furtive jerking off in the bathroom, morning and night, and, Stiles was pretty sure, some unconscious frottage in their sleep, but shit. It worked. His nightmares were less frequent, the hours of rest stretched out until they were almost a full night sometimes, and when Stiles did accidentally look at himself in the mirror, he could see the taut skin of his face gaining back some actual flesh beneath, the bags under his eyes fading away.

He Skyped his Dad a week after and the look of naked relief on his face was worth every single time Stiles and Derek woke up with awkwardly mutual morning wood and couldn’t look each other in the eye until lunchtime.

 

 

 

Working with the horses actually helped, which seemed faintly ridiculous. But they were just so… simple. Stiles turned up, fed and watered them, or led them from the stables to their yards, cleaned out the stalls, did some grooming – whatever their needs were, he met them. And as long as he stayed calm, handled them gently, they were happy to be led, to return what he showed them in kind.

Mr Oldham was showing Stiles other things, gradually – how to check the irrigation pipes, perform simple maintenance and repairs, how the haying equipment worked. But it was the horses Stiles kept coming back to.

He found himself frozen, one morning, arm circling Austen’s bay neck, forehead pressed to the warm muscle, just breathing, slow. He’d been locked in an unresponsive, black mood since he’d awoken, grunting at Derek and fleeing the house before he could say or do something ugly. But now, here, in the easy morning routine, motes of hay floating in the air and the now-familiar scent of horses filling his senses…

Stiles breathed out slowly. “Thanks, old girl,” he murmured, and her neck flexed as she swung her head slightly in his direction.

They don’t flee from him. They don’t seem to sense a monster in their midst.

 

 

 

Stiles kept in regular touch with Scott and the others. He couldn’t just _stop_ , no matter how glad he was to be away from all of it. He might have no intention of returning to Beacon Hills, but he was still invested in their well-being in a way he’d probably never truly shed.

So he was there for some of Scott’s more esoteric musings about how agreements with other packs should go and his steely refusal to even consider having another Emissary.

Stiles wasn’t exactly arguing with him about it.

So he heard the distant rumblings that the Tuross pack were still disputing that Tyrone had been involved in any way in the poisoning of Stiles. Those were fun calls, watching Isaac pace and mutter furiously in the background while Scott tried to keep his calm.

He also received a _fascinating_ letter forwarded with a bunch of other mail from Beacon Hills by his Dad. It was handwritten on actual parchment, what the fuck. Stiles read it sitting in his Jeep, read it again, and then sat staring into space on Main Street for a good twenty minutes.

Of all the directions he’d thought his life might take…

 

 

 

He lay awake that night, Derek breathing slow and even beside him. Stiles turned to stare out the window, at the absolute blackness outside, and wondered, tried to picture the possible futures ahead of him.  He rolled onto his side and stared at Derek, drank in the warmth emanating from the wolf, the _scent_ of him, _God_ , Stiles didn’t know anymore if this was punishment or reward, to be so close to having what he wanted.

He reached out, let his fingertips rest against the warm skin of Derek’s back, feeling his body _ache_. So close.

And yet so far.

 

 

 

It went on like that for another two weeks before Stiles couldn’t stand it anymore. Lust was simmering under his skin every second of the day, it felt like, and the smell of Derek on the sheets made his mouth water.

Something had to give. And if it didn’t, _Stiles_ was going to be the one to break something.

 

 

 

“Mr Oldham,” Stiles said one day out of the blue, “You know I’m gay, right?”

The old man blinked at him and reached out warily to turn off the hose. “What?”

Stiles could feel himself begin to blush, but he didn’t back down. “You do, though, right? Know about me. And Derek?” Which made it sound like they’re together, now that he thought about it, but then he was pretty sure that was how it looked to the whole town, so, _eh_.

“Ye-es,” Oldham said after a long moment, the word stretching out.

And then nothing. _Nothing_. Stiles flailed wordlessly in the silence, throwing out his arms in a clear demand for more information.

“And that’s it? You’re not bothered by it? Don’t think it’s unnatural or wrong or sinful or whatever?

Some part of Stiles’ brain was screaming at him to shut the fuck up, but he just can’t. It’s driving him _crazy_.

Now the old man was watching him appraisingly. “You’re a hard worker, you show up on time and you stay until the job’s done. Anything else isn’t exactly my business.”

Stiles flailed at him again.

The old man added, “Way I recall it, Bible had some advice about judging others, mostly – _don’t_.”

There was no way it was that simple.

Oldham clearly hesitated, then sighed. “It’s… new, no doubt about that. Ain’t somethin’ we’d ever really had to think about before, in Baden. Seemed like the sorta thing that only happened in the cities. But if I’m honest – I just try not to think about it. Ain’t none of my business what you do in your own home, long as I don’t have to watch it.”

Stiles swallowed, and gave a tight nod. So it was that flavour, then. Just no displays of affection in public, no acknowledgement of who they are. It was a damn sight better than getting the shit kicked out of you in a back alley, Stiles guessed, but it still didn’t feel great.

But the older man wasn’t done. He shifted from foot to foot, then said, “There was this- well, something happened in town, ‘bout two years before Derek got here. He probably doesn’t even know, now I think about it. But the old mayor, his brother…” Oldham grimaces. “There were some… pictures. They got emailed ‘round town by accident. Bedroom pictures,” he adds, as if Stiles hadn’t guessed that. “He was. Uh. Dressed up like a bear in some of ‘em. Like a _bear_ ,” he repeats, and his forehead creases in a delightfully confused frown. “And there were other. Uh. Folks. Wearing other… outfits.”

Stiles blinked at him. He had definitely not expected that.

“I didn’t ever need to see that,” Oldham added firmly. “But it sure reminded some of us not to judge a book by its cover. We’d known that man all his life and not a one of us saw that coming. So, no,” he added, “I ain’t worried about whatever you boys do if it ain’t happening in front of me. And it couldn’t be worse than when old Heck’s granddaughter brought her boyfriend home last Thanksgiving. Kissin in the street like they was tryin to swallow one another whole,” he added, shaking his head. “Mouths full of metal – full of metal? What the hell kind of idea is that?”

He was still muttering when he turned the hose back on, and Stiles returned to mucking out the stalls with a grin on his face.

 

 

Later, when Stiles had almost forgotten about the whole conversation, Oldham paused at his side and said softly, “Just. Be careful, that’s all. Keep to public spaces and don’t… don’t give anyone a chance to give you trouble. Not like Derek did.”

Stiles straightened and turned to look at him. “What?”

Oldham shook his head, mouth a straight line. “There’s folks ‘round here with stronger feelings about this than mine. Folks with opinions, who wouldn’t be shy about ‘teachin you a lesson’ if you know what I mean.”

He saw the old man’s eyes flick over Stiles’ body – still too thin, lanky, his pale skin and long-fingered hands. He knew what Oldham was seeing. No threat. It was what they all saw until it was too late, of course.

But here, in this place. He knew there was a whole other layer of bullshit being attributed to Stiles’s appearance now. Put him next to _Derek_ and there was a hundred years’ worth of toxic masculinity garbage to counter. Assumptions about strength and weakness and _sissy boys_.

Stiles set his jaw, gave a brief nod, and turned away. The old man meant well.

Seemed like all that prickly energy Stiles has gotten from sleeping in Derek’s bed was going to find an outlet, after all.

He found himself grinning. It was not a nice grin.

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

“Let’s go for a drink,” Stiles said, out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Let’s hit a bar or something. C’mon. There must be somewhere we can go and play a few games of pool or something.”

Derek raised his brows. “Yes, Stiles, there are bars in Montana.”

“So let’s go.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. Glanced away. “I don’t know – I’m restless. Don’t you ever want to just get out of here for an hour or two?”

There was _something_ going on, something simmering under Stiles’s words, but Derek couldn’t quite parse what. “Sure,” he said slowly. “I guess.”

And so they grabbed their phones and wallets and headed out to the cars. Stiles headed for his, and Derek paused, glancing between his truck and Stiles’ Jeep.

“C’mon. You can drive home if I have too many,” Stiles coaxed. He swung into the driver’s seat and waited just long enough for Derek to climb in before swinging ‘round in an arc and pointing the car down the hill.

Derek indulged himself and turned slightly sideways, watched Stiles through narrowed eyes.

“What?” The other man asked, eyes locked on the road.

“What are you up to?”

His brows lifted as they coasted to a stop at the gate. Super-casual, Stiles leaned back and raised his eyebrows at Derek.

“Hm,” Derek said, and climbed out, opening the gate and then closing it behind the Jeep.

He let Stiles head down toward town without interference, then said suddenly, “No, really. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re in the mood to stir up trouble,” Derek said.

Stiles actually attempted a look of shocked innocence, which, of course, he could only hold for about six seconds before he spoiled it by snickering.

“Last time I saw that look was the thing with the selkies,” Derek added. “I still can’t eat shrimp to this day.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I maybe heard some stories today, about when you first got to town.”

“Left up here,” Derek directed, while he thought that over. His forehead wrinkled in a frown before he suddenly went, “ _ohhh_.”

“Yeah, _ohh_ ,” Stiles said. “Here I was thinking you’d found some kind of oasis of tolerance in rural Montana-”

Derek snorted.

“-and instead I learn that instead you kicked a bunch of homophobic redneck ass as necessary until they learned to leave you alone.”

Derek leaned back harder in his seat. “I didn’t go looking for trouble,” he said.

“No, it just finds you anyway, doesn’t it,” Stiles replied with no sympathy.

“At least I wasn’t going to get hurt,” Derek began

“Derek,” Stiles said pleasantly, “if you’re about to embark on some protect-the-weak-human bullshit I will find a way to imbue your laundry powder with wolfsbane. And then I will spike your coffee with that fucking laundry powder.”

For a moment it lay there between them, the unspoken _and I have fought a lot tougher things since the last time you saw me._

“I, no,” Derek said unconvincingly, “I just. I don’t like it when your Dad gets mad at me.”

Stiles snorted. “The tragic thing is that I believe that. Completely. And there is no reason Dad should ever hear anything that would make him mad at you.”

“So what exactly are you planning to do? “

“Nothing,” Stiles said, all innocence. “Just shoot some pool, have a beer or two. Meet the locals.”

“Shit,” Derek said, and slumped lower in his chair as Stiles swung into the parking lot of the _Two Deuces_.

 

 

For a while Derek thought it might all be okay. They did, indeed, play some pool and drink a beer or two. Derek got a few muttered greetings but no conversation, which was just the way he preferred it, and he introduced Stiles to the two people who indicated they wanted to meet the new guy.

Then the door opened, and Derek’s nose recognised the newcomers before they’d even set foot inside. He sighed.

Stiles glanced sideways at him, poised over his cue. Their eyes met and Derek didn’t have to say a word. One corner of Stiles’s mouth curled up and he turned his focus back on the table. One breath, two, and he sent his ball into the pocket with a gorgeous banked shot that had Derek shaking his head.

“Did you pool shark your way through Beacon Hills after I left?” he asked quietly. He was getting his ass kicked, here. Stiles tried a more complicated shot and managed only to screw up the one ball that had been nicely lined up for Derek.

Stiles straightened lazily and cocked a hip. His fingers held the cue in a loose, confident grip.

Derek swallowed, suddenly very fucking aware of just how hot Stiles looked tonight. He’d grown into his shoulders many years ago, but there was something about the planes of his face, the shadows of his cheekbones and the danger in his eyes that was like sex.

“I have some hidden skills,” he murmured. He’d always won at the game of innuendo.

Derek just stared, caught, and the moment stretched out between them, curiously taut, only to be broken by an overly loud, “You fairies gonna just stand there all night takin’ up the table?”

Stiles blinked, and Derek took a deep breath. He turned his head and met the moron’s eyes. He hadn’t bothered learning most of their names, but he remembered this guy well enough. Not overly tall, but thickset, with hard grey eyes and the inevitable MAGA ball-cap.

“We’ll be done when we’re done,” Derek said, mildly enough, but the guy’s shoulders tensed like he’d squared off with raised fists.

“Your turn, I believe,” Stiles said, his eyes still on Derek.

Derek gave him a long look, his heart already beating a little faster at the prospect of a fight. Then he turned his head and managed to sink one ball, before missing the next.

Stiles gave him a catlike grin, and finished him off in four shots.

Derek grunted.

“Come on,” Stiles taunted, “it’s not like you’ve never lost to me before.” For one second it was like no time at all had passed, as though Stiles had spent the past few months kicking Derek’s ass at various board games, instead of trying to claw his way back out of his PTSD and bad memories and guilt and self-loathing. Then Derek remembered and it was another slap in the face.

He took a sharp, jerky step back. “Bathroom,” he says, and pretended he couldn’t see the smile fade from Stiles’s face as he racked his cue and turned away.

 

 

 

It wasn’t until he was zipping up again that Derek remembered _why_ Stiles had wanted to come to a bar, and he swore. Fuck, Derek was such a _moron_. He’d just walked out of there and left Stiles-

Derek burst back into the bar and sure enough, Stiles was nowhere to be seen, and the small group of idiots who’d been waiting for the table weren’t there either.

Derek met the bartender’s eye, got a jerk of the head toward the car park in response, and shoved through the crowd toward the door. Distantly, from the car park he heard Stiles say “Stay out of this, Derek.” And then, sounding eerily like all of Derek’s nightmares since the whole Emissary mess had started, “I can handle myself.”

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles was almost enjoying this.

He should probably feel bad about that.

These guys thought he was just some skinny twink that was begging to get an ass-kicking for the high crime of being gay in rural America. Little did they know he was more used to fighting the things that go bump in the night, and it had been a long, _long_ time since ordinary humans scared him.

He strolled across the car park toward his Jeep, using just enough pace to keep himself ahead of the four losers who were about to learn a painful lesson. They were muttering things to one another, building up their adrenalin, and calling the occasional half-hearted slur to Stiles.

They weren’t even drunk. They were just _assholes_.

And he was not the _least bit_ sorry.

As he came level with the back of his Jeep he used the reflection in the  large rear window to note where they were all standing, and how far back. Then he pulled open the rear door and flipped the cap off the PVC pipe clipped to the inside of the door. With his hand resting on the pipe, and his back to the group that was now clustering into a lose semi-circle around him, Stiles said, “You fellas got a problem with me?”

“Yeah, we do,” one of them replied immediately.

Stiles probably should feel bad about this. He was practically talking them into it.

“I’m warning you now,” he said, “leave me alone. I’m stronger than I look.” _There,_ he told his conscience. _I warned them_.

“Oh _really_ ,” another one started, snickering, “you’re-”

Stiles drew his baseball bat out of the pipe in one easy slide, and didn’t even bother swinging it. He just reversed it in his grip, still held parallel to the ground, and  jammed the head of the bat straight into the solar plexus of the moron standing right behind him.

The guy doubled over with a wheeze, and now it was three against one.

The three of them were gawping at their pal, and so Stiles slammed him in the side with a knee, let him roll to one side and out of the way enough that Stiles could step closer to his next victim.

The three of them shuffled back for a second, still startled, and then their native asshole qualities kicked in and their eyes narrowed, faces flushed with rage. Stiles raised the bat, slid a little to the right so the Jeep was at his back and the still-open door was protecting his left side, and sure enough the MAGA cap guy tracked the bat with his eyes, wary, his arm lifting in an instinctive block.

Stiles moved as if to swing the bat, the threatening arc of it headed straight for the red cap, but then jabbed hard with his leading elbow instead, straight into the moron’s nose with Stiles’s full body weight behind it. It made a satisfying crunch, and the guy grunted, staggered back, and Stiles let his bat drop as he finished the swing one-handed. He’d fought so many super-powered types that he was a little hesitant to go as hard as normal. He didn’t want to kill anybody. So he clocked the guy on the knee instead of the head, with about half the power he could have used.

MAGA fell down like a sack of trash, and Stiles resettled his weight into the balls of both feet. Then he turned his head to look at the two remaining heroes. They were gaping, mouths open, at their buddies.

“Okay,” Stiles said, not even out of breath. “Who’s next?”

“What the fuck, man,” one of them said. He was _huge_ , and Stiles suspected he probably wouldn’t get a whole lot of people wanting to fight a side of beef like that. It sure looked like it’d been a few  years since he’d had to get his hands dirty.

“What?” Stiles asked, spread his hands, all innocence.

The guy in the Metallica shirt raised a shaking hand and pointed furiously at the bat. “That’s not fucking far, that’s-”

“Oh, like four on one is fair?” Stiles asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Okay then. Let’s fight fair.” He stepped back toward the Jeep and half-turned away. “Stay out of this, Derek,” he murmured, in case the wolf was listening for him, about to fling himself into the fight like a broody white knight. “I can handle myself.”

He slid the bat back into the PVC pipe, and slammed the Jeep’s door shut. Solar plexus guy was rolling up onto his knees, and Stiles gave him a friendly tap in the kidneys with his boot.

“Stay down, dumb fuck,” he said, casual. The guy wobbled a little, then did.

Stiles stepped forward until he was between the two remaining douchenozzles, and said, “Who’s first?”

They exchanged glances and Stiles sighed. “Oh come on. You were all psyched for a fight, don’t tell me you’re going to let a _faggot_ beat you.” His blood was up, pumping wildly, and he felt _useful_ for once, _competent_.

He knew what to do here, _oh yes he did._

Metallica guy snarled and lumbered forward, fist raised for the punch. It was kind of him to telegraph exactly what he was going to do, it made it real easy for Stiles to drop under the punch and lash out with a kick that collected the guy right in the gut.

He let out an _oof_ , folded up a little bit, but not enough to be finished. Stiles had been in enough fights to know. Luckily for him, the big unit decided to weigh in at that moment. He put his considerable weight behind a punch that probably would have put Stiles’s lights out if it had connected.

The front door of the bar burst open and Derek stumbled out. _“Stiles,”_ he shouted. The bartender and a couple of onlookers were right behind him.

Stiles ducked to the side on instinct, and instead of hitting Stiles in the face, the behemoth’s fist crunched straight into the side of the Jeep, full force. He bit back a scream and staggered.

Stiles winced. That… that was probably broken.

“You _fuck_ ,” the fat guy was burbling, hunched over his hand, “you fuckin’-”

Metallica guy was pulling himself upright, but Stiles wasn’t keen to let this go on all night. Derek would only hang back for so long.

Stiles reached out to take a grip of Metallica’s hair, one hand on either side of his head, and used the hair like a handle to drag his opponent’s face downwards even as Stiles raised his knee.

Blood gushed out of Metallica’s nose on contact, he slumped sideways, groaning, and landed on the solar plexus guy, who was just managing to get to his hands and knees.

Stiles raised his head and met Derek’s eyes.

The wolf was breathing too fast, panicked, and Stiles should feel bad about it, he knew. But he just – he _needed_ this.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hunkers down, worried that the Metallica fans are coming for me next...*

 

Stiles ended up driving home, after all. The bartender had run an experience eye over the groaning morons decorating the parking lot, shrugged and said, “I don’t think we need the cops.” Stiles had given him a respectful nod, made significant eye contact with the handful of onlookers who were, frankly, goggling at the mess Stiles had made of the local troublemakers. Yeah, this story would spread pretty quick.

The atmosphere inside the Jeep was positively _icy_ , but Stiles didn’t break the silence. Derek sat in the passenger seat and fumed, and when they finally reached the first gate on the driveway, he flung himself out of the car and bit out, “I’m going for a run.”

Stiles just nodded and bit his lip. He drove his lonely way up to the house, parked and went inside, staring around, lost.

After a few minutes he took himself off to shower and change for bed, but when he emerged there was still no sign of Derek. For a long moment he stood there, hesitating, then he took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and went into the living room to wait.

He didn’t turn on the TV or pick up his iPad. He sat, in the dim glow of one lamp, and waited. The adrenaline had long since faded, leaving him tired and drained, but his thoughts, at least were clearer.

 

 

 

Derek ran the perimeter of the fenceline, but whatever good the run did him was then undone by the faint traces of Stiles’ blood he could smell along the way.

Finally he admitted to himself that he was being stupid and a little overdramatic, and headed home. Stiles would be asleep by now, and they could start over in the morning.

His luck, of course, did not permit that. He _was_ still Derek Hale, after all.

He walked inside and kicked off his boots, took a slow, steadying breath and followed the scent of Stiles into the living room.

Stiles raised his head and looked Derek right in the eye.

“I get that you’re angry. I understand why. But I need you to sit down and listen to me now,” Stiles said. His voice was calm and measured, no defensiveness, no annoyance, not much of anything.

“I don’t think this is the best time to talk.”

“Please just sit,” Stiles said, no bite to it. “Just listen.”

Derek took another slow breath, and sat.

“I know I scared you. I know I worried you. And I’m sorry for that. But I had good reasons for what I did tonight, and I’d like you to hear me out.”

Derek’s mouth tightened. He waved a hand, a _go on_ kind of gesture.

“This place,” Stiles began. Then he sighed. “Look. I’ve seen the looks I get, and I know small towns well enough to know what’s being said. I mean, don’t tell me you haven’t been overhearing things. A younger guy, gay, especially next to you with your ridiculous physique – plus, I moved into your place five minutes after I got here.”

“That’s just… it’s too many signals - _especially_ in a place like this – that I’m weaker, or softer, that I’m the woman - or what the fuck ever toxic bullshit they wanted to read into or label it. And if I don’t want that reputation, then…” he spread his hands. “I need to establish myself as someone who can take care of myself.”

Derek just breathed.

“I’m sorry I didn’t… warn you, or whatever. I mean, I didn’t _know_ anything was going to happen tonight.”

“You just knew that if it did you were going to take advantage of it.”

“Yes,” Stiles said, and there’s no apology in his voice. “That’s how this works. And I know you know that Derek, because you did the exact same thing when you got here. Didn’t you.”

Derek looked away then. He didn’t have much of a leg to stand on here, he knew that. Stiles had read the situation pretty much the same as Derek had.

It wasn’t pretty, and it sure as shit wasn’t admirable, but it worked as a way of keeping the bigots at arms’ length. If you kicked enough heads, they started just avoiding you. And he was right, too, about the ignorant, shitty assumptions people were making about Stiles all over town. Derek had overheard things in the past month that had, frankly, made him want to go actively looking for a few assholes and kick the ever-living _shit_ out of them.

“That’s not the only reason, though. It wasn’t only self-preservation. You can’t expect me to be happy about this,” Derek finally said.

Stiles glanced away. “Yeah, that’s fair. And I. I know. I’m not going to make this a habit.” Stiles said. “I get that you’re pissed at me, I do. If the positions were reversed I’d be mad too. But I’m not going to apologise.”

Derek’s mouth twisted. He gave a short, sharp shake of his head. Logically he understood it. Logically. But his _heart_.

There was silence. The utter silence that can only be found in a home with no neighbours, no traffic, no animals even to fill the void.

Into that silence, Stiles said, “Derek. I promise you.” He rose from his spot on the couch and shifted to the coffee table in front of Derek. Their knees brushed lightly, a tiny bit of warmth seeping from one to the other.

“I won’t ever take my own safety lightly,” Stiles said. “I swear it.” His voice was calm, and sure, and utterly serious. Derek couldn’t look at him.

Then Stiles reached out with one hand, slowly, and brought it up to cup Derek’s cheek.

Derek inhaled sharply and their eyes locked. He was pretty sure that was the first time Stiles had voluntarily touched him since Beacon Hills when it wasn’t about sex or panic.

“I promise not to put myself in jeopardy if I can possibly help it,” Stiles told him slowly, every word clear as a vow. “I won’t do that to you, or my Dad. We’ve all had more than enough of that.”

Derek sat, heart shaking, and stared into Stiles’ eyes. He could feel himself vibrating like a plucked guitar string, all of him pulled tight and truly alive for the first time in years, just from that one small connection, Stiles’ hand on his face. He was suddenly back in Beacon Hills, in their bed, all those years ago, Stiles’ thumb rubbing just behind his ear, everything soft and easy between them.

“Do you believe me?” Stiles asked. The question had a horrible vulnerability to it.

Derek pressed his lips together, managed a short nod, and then slowly, slowly, leaned forward until he could rest his bent head on the younger man’s knees. Stiles drew in a slow breath, hand curving around the back of Derek’s head, then he bent over the ‘wolf, caging him in. The younger man’s scent was _everywhere_ , his warmth above and below Derek, his heartbeat slow and steady in Derek’s ear.

“I’ll be as safe as I can,” he whispered, “so please, please, Derek, please be safe, too?”

Derek closed his eyes, and rolled the dice. “Stiles,” he said. “Will you. Will you talk to someone?”

He felt the other man’s body go still around him.

“Someone. You mean a therapist.”

Derek didn’t bother to reply.

He drew back a little, and Stiles straightened up, the two of them resuming their former positions. Stiles met his eyes steadily. “You think I’m losing it?”

Derek shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I’d be a hypocrite to say so. But you – you were glad of the chance, yes?”

His jaw clenched and Stiles looked away.

“It gave you somewhere to put all that anger. Right?”

 _You’re not fighting or fucking,_ Derek thought but didn’t say. _You’re itching for an outlet._

“But you need to find another way to deal with it, when that impulse builds up. Because you can only get away with this so many times before either the other guys escalate, the cops get called in or, worst case, you draw outside attention to us.”

“You think I’d be that careless?” Stiles demanded, pissed.

“I think it’s a possibility you can’t rule out,” Derek said. “People talk. Also, that’s not the point. I think you already know that you’re not particularly emotionally healthy right now. You’re sleeping and eating better, which is helping, but sooner or later it’s all going to come bubbling up. You need someone to talk to.”

Stiles gave him a long, frustrated look. Derek could see all the evasions lined up – _can’t I talk to you, I’m away from that life, it’s all different now, I just need time._

He placed a hand on Stiles’ wrist, and just waited. He needed Stiles to come to this without persuasion. Derek knew that much from trying to talk to Peter about the same exact thing.

“Fine,” Stiles said finally. He pressed the heel of one hand to his eye and looked away. “I’ll ask Deaton if he knows of anyone he trusts.”

The air rushed out of Derek’s lungs. “ _Thank_ you,” he said.

Stiles mouth twisted. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Derek shook his head. “Thank you for _trying_.”

The younger man’s mouth took on a rueful slant. “No, _really_ , Derek. You’ve asked me for pretty much nothing since I got here, and even this isn’t really for you, is it? I’m serious. Don’t thank me yet.”

 

 

 

It should have come as no surprise that Derek had a nightmare that night.

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

He could feel Stiles’ eyes on him the next morning, thoughtful, and somehow the sensation of being watched lingered throughout the day, even when Stiles went off to work at the Oldham place. It wasn’t until Stiles was arranging vegetables in a baking tray for dinner that night, that Derek finally snapped and demanded, _“What?”_

Stiles jumped a little, and gave him a startled glance. “What?”

“What’s with the thoughtful looks?” The minute he said it, Derek felt stupid, but-

Stiles blinked at him. “Um, sorry? I didn’t realize I was. Uh. I just. I called Deaton today. He asked how you were. I guess it made me. Thinky.”

Derek let out a gusty sigh. “No, sorry, it’s me. I’m just. On edge.” Then he blinked. “Wait, what? You called Deaton?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, grinding pepper and salt onto the potatoes. He didn’t look up. “I said I would.”

Derek shut his mouth before he could say something stupid like, _Yeah, but I thought you’d argue about it for longer._

Stiles’ mouth quirked, like he was reading Derek’s mind or maybe his face, but without even needing to glance over. “You are not the first person in my life to suggest I need therapy, Derek,” Stiles said. He slid the pan into the oven and closed the door before turning back, one brow raised. “Let’s just say I didn’t want to wait until you and Dad had found the time to chat about it together.”

“Oh.” Derek looked down at his feet. He could feel a small smile touch his mouth. “Okay.”

“Deaton knows someone over in Washington state.” Stiles leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “He’s going to give her a call and see if she’d be prepared to take me on.”

Derek took a deep cleansing breath.

“I did it too, you know?” he said. Stiles blinked at him. “Before I settled here. I uh. Just to a regular therapist, left out the supernatural stuff, but. It really does help.” Well. It had helped to process Kate and Jennifer. He hadn’t gotten as far as talking about Stiles before he’d gotten itchy feet and moved on, found his side of the mountain in Montana.

Stiles gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

 

 

 

Almost a week later Stiles stuck his head around the corner of Derek’s bedroom doorway and said, “Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

Derek turned, laundry hamper in his arms, and sent Stiles a confused look. “What?” Since when did he ever have plans Stiles didn’t already know about?

“Just checking,” Stiles said, hands raised as if to say don’t shoot. “It’s only polite.”

“We going to another bar?” Derek said, snide.

Stiles let that one go. “I need to drive over to Spokane. Probably stay the night.”

“What- why?”

“Nicola, Deaton’s friend. We’re uh, gonna try this over Skype, as a rule. But I want to meet her in person first.”

 _I want to scope her out in case it’s some kind of trap_ , Stiles doesn’t say, but they both hear it loud and clear anyway. “She said she could drive across to Spokane this Saturday, so I’m going to meet her there. Thought you might like to come, too. You could do some sightseeing or whatever.”

“Uh,” Derek blinked. “Yeah. Ok, sure, that’s um.”

Stiles smiled, soft and easy. “Ok. Great.”

Turned out, Stiles had a little more in mind than ‘sightseeing or whatever’. When they strolled into the lobby of the downtown hotel Stiles had booked, there was a familiar face sitting in one of the wing-back chairs.

 _“Terry?”_ Derek said, incredulous.

“Hey, handsome,” Terry said, reflexive, then winced and shot a look at Stiles, who just snorted and shook his head.

“Surprise,” Stiles said, and waved a casual hand toward Terry like a magician who has done far too many children’s parties.

“What?”

He shrugged one shoulder like it was nothing. “I thought maybe you’d like some company. I know you guys didn’t get much of a chance to catch up this summer, so I gave Terry a call.”

Derek just stared. Stiles met his eyes and gave him a singularly sweet smile. “I’ll go on and check us in.” He gave Terry a casual nod and strode on toward the front desk.

“What?” Derek said again.

“So I guess you guys are working things out,” Terry said. “Because this was about the last thing I’d have predicted after the first time he and I met, but, like. He friended me on facebook months ago and then calls me out of the blue about this weekend like he has no problem with us hanging out.”

“I. I guess,” was all Derek could say.

“That is, assuming he hasn’t lured me here so he can kill me and dump the body. He hasn’t, right? Derek?”

“Of course not.” He glanced after Stiles, who was grinning easily at the girl working the desk, and looked damn good doing it. “We’re. Trying to talk more.”

“Wow,” Terry said. “Okay, wow. Trying to talk more but not yet having sex. How are you managing that?”

“What?” Derek half-yelped, spinning toward Terry.

“Derek,” Terry said pityingly, “you are looking at Stiles’ ass like it’s a really fine piece of mahogany you found on the side of the road, and don’t think I don’t know how pathetic it is that _that_ metaphor is truly the most appreciative and yet lustful that I’ve ever seen you look.”

Derek rubs a hand over his face. “Terry.”

“Why on _earth_ have you not yet claimed that fine piece of real estate?”

“We’re taking it slow,” Derek mumbled into his hand. “Now can we please not talk about this anymore.”

“Oh sure,” Terry scoffed. Derek shot him a look, and he relented, grinning. “Okay, fine. We will press pause on this. But we _are_ having a Conversation, Derek Hale.”

“Oh good,” Derek said. “Those are my favourite.”

 

 

 

 

So Derek and Terry saw the giant milk bottle and a few other ‘sights’ in Spokane. Stiles apparently met with Nicole in  a microbrewery on the river – nice and public, but hard to be overheard – and liked her well enough.

The Conversation turned out better than Derek had expected.

“So you’re done pretending you’re not desperately in love with the boy?” Terry said, flat out. He paused their walking halfway across the picturesque bridge, the falls rushing beneath them, laying down a pleasant wall of sound.

Derek leaned against the railing and drew in a big breath, filling his lungs. He hesitated, then said, “I’ve had some really fucked up relationships.”

Terry blinked.  Yeah, Derek hadn’t known he was done with avoidance either, until suddenly he was.

“When I was fifteen, I met a woman who was older, like, in her mid twenties. She… pursued me. At the time I thought I was in love.” He swallowed and kept his eyes on the water. “Unfortunately she was a psychopath who’d targeted me because she had a grudge against my family. When I was sixteen she trapped most of my family inside our home and burned it to the ground.”

He heard Terry’s sharp inhale, but didn’t look. “My parents, my younger siblings, my pregnant aunt, my grandmother. They all died.”

“Fuck,” Terry said. An urgent hand gripped Derek’s shoulder. “Shit, Derek, I-”

It had actually gotten easier to say it. Therapy had done that much for him, though it didn’t change the grief. He didn’t look at Terry, just said, “It fucked me up for a long time.”

“Holy shit. No wonder, I mean-”

“Wait,” Derek said. “Because uh. That’s actually not the end of the bad shit.”

“My sister and I, we ran. To the other side of the country. My uncle was badly burned, we left him behind in a care facility.  Years later, Laura went back. she was.” He had to stop there, swallowed hard. “Murdered.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Terry said again.

“I was… messed up.”

Then Derek snorts. Understatement.

“That’s when I met Stiles. His Dad is the Sherriff. Stiles was… well, inquisitive. A nosy, hyperactive high school kid. He was pretty sure I’d killed Laura… we had kind of a combative relationship for a long time. I was actually arrested for Laura’s murder, until I could prove I was still in New York when it happened. But anyway, our interactions were – not great. It took years for us to even become friends.”

“I. I actually have no idea what to say right now,” Terry finally managed.

“So I guess you never Googled me, huh,” Derek replied. His eyes were still on the water.

“It never occurred to me there was a reason to Google, holy fucking _hell,_ Derek.” His voice wavered, and then he said, very quietly, “Can I hug you?”

Derek huffed, turned toward Terry. “Oh, I get a choice now?”

“Shit,” Terry said, face anguished, “Don’t say that, now I’m thinking about consent and how I just-”

“Terry,” Derek said gently. “You saved me. That first winter, I really think I would have gone out of my mind, alone up there. You were non-threatening human contact, and I don’t think you’ll ever really know what that meant to me. So don’t stop now.” He opened his arms, and the younger man flung himself at Derek.

He was crying, Derek realized with shock a few seconds later.

“Oh kid,” Derek said. “I’m okay. I’m okay now.”

“No-one is ever really okay after something like that happens to them,” Terry retorted, angry, and then said, “oh shit, sorry, that was tactless as hell.”

Derek actually managed a half laugh. “No, you’re right, actually. The closed-off stuff, the trust issues – I’m pretty sure that’s with me for life.”

They’re quiet for a long time, and then Terry said timidly, “Is she in jail?”

Internally Derek thinks, _Well, it’s complicated_. But he said, “She’s dead, actually. Same person that murdered Laura killed her.”

“Fuck. Okay. Well, I know it’s messed up to say it but I’m glad she’s dead,” Terry said fiercely.

“No argument from me,” Derek said. It occurred to him that Stiles and Terry were probably going to have a pretty intense conversation about Kate at some point.

 

 

 

Derek was driving home the next day when he suddenly said, “Thank you. For – for Terry. That was. It was good to see him.”

Stiles was staring out his window, face turned away. “No problem.”

He hesitated, then said, “I told him about Kate. And the fire."

Stiles froze. “Oh. Did- was it okay?”

He shrugged. “He, uh. Cried.”

Stiles just nodded, and his eyes had dropped to his hands. “Well, I mean. That’s .. y’know. It deserves tears. And I’m glad you could tell him. But you don’t need to thank me for-”

Derek frowned, “No, _really_. It was – I appreciated it.”

Stiles did turn then, swung his head slowly toward Derek, and for a half-second the wolf was nervous that he’d said something wrong – kicked off the whole jealousy thing again, or-

“Derek,” Stiles said, smiling just a little, “You never ask for anything. Giving you the chance to see a friend was genuinely the very least I could do. It made me happy to see you happy, okay?”

Derek turned his eyes quickly back to the road.

“Besides,” Stiles said. “I think I could get to like Terry. You know, if I use my brain instead of my fucked up emotions.”

“Oh that’s just what I need,” Derek muttered. “Both of you to gang up on me.”

Stiles just smiled and turned to stare back out his window.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should admit now that I have stolen the store from Bozeman, so please if you're from Montana or know the area don't yell at me for inaccuracy. I just couldn't go past the NAME   
> (https://schnees.com/)

 

A week went by, then two. The weather began to grow colder, and Stiles continued working for the Oldham’s and even though school had restarted he didn’t talk about either pursuing a teaching role, or going back to California.

Derek knew he’d probably have to bring it up. Just waiting for Stiles to pack his bags wasn’t doing his equilibrium any favours.

 

 

 

“You’re Stilinski?”

Stiles froze, then turned slowly. There, standing beside the heavy winter coats was a stranger, lean and weather-beaten, wearing the genuine boots and jeans of someone who worked the land. Stiles could spot them now.

“Uh. Yes.”

The man looked him up a down, doubt clear on his face. _“You’re_ the guy who beat up Roy Betts and his buddies?”

“I didn’t stop to get their names, but I’m guessing that’s right,” Stiles said, and shifted his weight just slightly. Shit. He did _not_ want a fight in the middle of the Outerwear section of Schnee’s. Derek may have had a point about things snowballing. Stiles was definitely getting more mutters and pointed fingers lately, even two towns away from Baden.

Again the guy took in Stiles’s lanky frame, frowning slightly, then said, “So you can handle yourself.”

“I do all right,” Stiles muttered, confused. This didn’t feel like a fight brewing.

The guy nodded once, decisive. “Okay then.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. The guy seemed to feel something had been settled, and Stiles would really love to know what, exactly, it was.

“My name’s Lewis Walker. I’ve got a daughter. Lacey.” He paused, eyed Stiles again. “She’s a gymnast. Damn good one, too.”

“O-kay?” Stiles said. He wasn’t quite sure how to say _what the fuck has that got to do with me?_

“She’s got it in her head to join that circus. The French one.”

Stiles was really afraid now that he was being punked. “Um. Cirque du Soleil,  you mean?”

“That’s it. Canadian. And she’s determined too. A hard worker. She’ll make it.”

“Right. Um, Mr Walker I’m not sure-”

“If she does get in she’ll be on her own with a bunch of strangers. Actors. Dancers. Clowns. Tourin’ all ‘round the world.”

“I guess so.”

“So I want her to be able to take care of herself,” he finished, and looked at Stiles expectantly.

His brows shot up. “What? You want me to- what?”

“I want you to teach my daughter how to kick the shit out of anyone who tries anything she doesn’t like. She’s a tiny little thing,” he gestured toward Stiles, which wasn’t exactly complimentary when he thought about it, “but that don’t mean she should let herself be pushed around.”

Stiles blinked at him. Somewhere, back in Beacon Hills, Isaac was feeling the urge to throw a parade. Because Stiles was. Lost for words. Utterly.

“I saw the news last year. That _doctor_ ,” Walker spat. “Touching all those girls, those gymnasts.” There was a spasm of rage on the man’s face that truly made Stiles’ heart run cold. “I know I can’t protect her from everything in life but by God I will try.”

“Um.” Stiles said. “Mr Walker, I’ve never taught self-defence. I’m not really-”

“You can teach her what you know, can’t you?” he said, impatient.

Stiles hesitated. “Look,” he said, stepping a little closer, and dropping his voice. “Honestly? A lot of what I know, I learned from being in fights. Not wanting your face kicked in is a great motivator, and actually getting hurt works even better. I can show her some stuff, sure. But the kind of edge I have is genuinely not something you want your teenage daughter to have, because it probably means people have actually tried to hurt her.”

Walker looked away. His jaw worked, like he was trying out five different ways to start his next sentence, then he said. “This _Me Too_ stuff. You heard of it, I’m assuming?”

“Uh. Yes.”

He shook his head. “Seemed unbelievable to me.” He shifted on his feet, until he was standing more at a right angle to Stiles than front on. It seemed to loosen him up a little, and the words began to just pour out of him. “I asked my wife. Know what she said?”

He didn’t need Stiles to reply.

“She said sure, she’s got stories like that. Just, matter of fact. Not the worst kind, thank God. But yeah. Hands on her when she didn’t want, filth shouted at her when she walked to her car. My sister, too. Two of her best friends, she says, were raped in high school.” He shook his head, distress all over his face. “We’re only two years apart in age – I _know_ all of her friends. Know all the boys from then, too, pretty much. But it was all kept quiet, nothing done about it, and now I keep wondering who...” Then he turned to skewer Stiles with a look. “I’m supposed to send my daughter out into _that_ world?”

Shit. Stiles couldn’t look away from the guy. He heard himself exhale a long, shaky breath and ran a hand over his face. This was very far out of his comfort zone. But he couldn’t exactly argue with the guy’s motivation.

“Look, I. I can meet with Lacey, if you want? See if she’ll…” he shrugged. _Listen to me_.

Walker gave a short, sharp nod. “All I ask. I’d be happy to pay you for your time. You figure something out and let me know.”

Stiles nodded dumbly. “Yeah, right. You do know I’ve never done this before, though.”

“I heard talk you’re a teacher, though.”

Wow. It was a powerful grapevine, that was for sure.

“I’m registered, yeah,” Stiles said. “Though I’m trying my hand at ranch work right now.” He hasn’t really been that keen to test out what it would be like to be the only gay (or only out) teacher at the local high school, so as long as he was bringing in some money from the Oldman ranch, Stiles was happy to leave things be. He wasn’t paying Derek any rent which he didn’t like, but he also knew exactly how it would go if he offered, so… grocery money it was.

A sharp grin registered on Walker’s face. “Yep, I heard. Old Cec says you’re not a bad hand.”

Stiles snorted. “High praise.”

“Well we’ll see how you go through a Montana winter first.”

He nodded, “Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot.”

Walker reached into his pocket and drew out a business card. _Falconer’s Hill Ranch_ , it read, with contact details on it.

“You let me know a price and what time you can offer, and we’ll see.”

Stiles took the card, hand moving slowly. As he gripped it he looked Walker right in the eye. “This is partly because I’m gay, isn’t it. So you feel confident I’m not going to hit on your daughter.”

The corner of Walker’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t hurt,” was all he said.

Stiles decided not to ruin the man’s day by bringing up the existence of bisexuality. He’d bide his time on that one.

 

 

 

“Do you know Tom Walker?” Stiles asked, out of nowhere.

“Uh. I don’t think so?” Derek looked up from the dishes, curious.

“He own Falconer’s Hill Ranch, apparently.”

“Hm. Okay, I’ve driven past the ranch, but I don’t think I’ve met the guy.”

“I met him today. I drover over to Schnee’s to look at winter jackets and-”

“You _what?”_

“Huh?” Stiles glanced over confused.

“You were shop-” Derek stopped himself. “Uh, nothing.”

Stiles waited, but Derek just turned his eyes back to his hands, mind racing. He was shopping for winter jackets. He was _staying?_

“Annnnyway,” Stiles said slowly, “he asked me to teach his daughter self defence.”

Derek blinked down at the suds on his hands. He looked up and met Stiles’ amused eyes.

“Yeah,” the younger man said. “That’s about how I took it, too.”

Derek’s mind began to tick over. “So he- what? Heard about your Fight Club moment and…”

“Apparently feels it recommends me to teach his daughter.”

“I… do not know what to say to that.”

Stiles smirked. “Well. I’m pretty sure it also helped that he ‘knows’ I wouldn’t lay hands on her because I’m safe on account of being gay.” He rolled his eyes.

“Right,” Derek said, nodding.  “So. Are you going to?”

Stiles took a huge breath. “Man, I don’t know – I guess I’ll go and meet her? He was kind of- it was hard to say no. The guy is freaking out over her going out in the wide world, like, he’s suddenly aware that sexual harassment is a real thing his daughter may face, especially since she wants to leave Montana and will be out there with all of those uh, I don’t know, dangerous strangers.”

“At least he’s not trying to talk her out of leaving town, I guess?” Derek offered. The back of his mind was still occupied with processing that Stiles was looking at winter coats, which implies he’s going to stay through the winter…

“Yeah, I guess.” Stiles said, and shrugged.

 

 

 

Stiles eventually ended up calling Kira in Beacon Hills for some advice before he met Lacey. He wanted some female perspective, even if half the time his mind was occupied with how nice it was to be able to talk about something normal, not preparing for a siege or scoping out weaknesses of another pack, or trying to figure out if an alliance could be established.

Next call was his Dad. The Sheriff had lots of leaflets and general advice on personal safety from the talks the deputies occasionally gave at the local community college and high schools. He also had lots of great tips from personal experience. By the end of that conversation Stiles was feeling pretty good about the whole thing – it was nice to think about turning his hard-won skills into helping others stay safe.

He knew he’d never be a cop. Not now, not the way he was. But he could keep people safe in other ways.

So in the end, he took himself off to Falconer’s Hill Ranch, which seemed about three times the size of the Oldham place, and had some amazingly high tech equipment. Stiles could begin to see why the guy was happy to pay the high rates Stiles had nominated. They had a _drone_ on hand to scan for stray cows, for goodness’ sake.

Lacey was there, with another friend whose parents were apparently also keen for their daughter to learn some self-defence.

“Okay,” Stiles said, “So. I figured we can just try things out today and see if you guys are happy with what I do. If not, no harm no foul, and we call it quits. Fair?”

Lacey nodded, her friend a beat behind her. In the doorway, Walker was watching, arms crossed.

“So, we can start with some simple stuff. Making someone let go of you.” He hesitated, then said, “Now, you get that I’m going to have to touch you, right? We can start out simple, but if we keep on going, I’m going to, at least part of the time, have to act the part of your attacker. So there’s going to be contact.”

They both just nodded.

“You need to let me know if you’re not comfortable with me doing that. I talked to some friends back in California who do this for a living, and they recommended that if you have a brother, or a close male friend, or boyfriend, whatever, but a guy you know and trust, you can practice with him, and he can maybe attend some classes with you. Doesn’t have to be every week, but it can be useful. So… think about that, too, I guess. It’s best if it’s a guy so you can get an idea of grip strength, height difference, that sort of thing.”

“I have a brother,” the friend, Stella said. “He might come.”

Lacey’s eyes drifted toward her Dad, which Stiles had no problem interpreting as _well there’s this guy but my Dad doesn’t know about him._ “Um.”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Stiles cut in smoothly. “Just, something to think about if we keep going. Okay. So, first scenario. A guy grabs your wrist or arm. Picture someone in a club, or a party who’s stopping you from walking away. This one’s mostly about technique, to be honest. It’s all in the twist…”

 

 

Lacey and Stella were happy to continue with Stiles, and Tom Walker seemed satisfied. So Stiles put in a call to the instructors back in California who had taught him judo and kung fu, and asked their advice so he didn’t feel so much of a fraud. He also took their advice on getting insurance.

Nicola, too, was interested in this new adventure for Stiles.

Though that may have been because he was in no way ready to talk about Derek, or being an Emissary. _Baby steps,_ his Dad kept saying. _Just keep going_.

In the fourth week, another girl showed up, and two more the week after that. It made him nervous, truth be told. He wasn’t really qualified to be doing this, and he felt like a fraud half the time, but the girls listened pretty intently to everything he said and watching them, flushed and triumphant after executing a block, or extracting themselves from a firm hold, was a hell of a kick.

He started writing stuff down, thinking seriously about how to structure things so they were building skills logically, and he talked more and more with his Dad and his instructors back in California about the non-physical side of things: situational awareness and how to avoid altercations in the first place, ways to de-escalate. Sadly, in a lot of these conversations, the girls were way ahead of Stiles. Female survival skills, he guessed, and tried not to think too hard about how many generations of women had passed on that kind of advice to their daughters, over and over again.

The parchment letter sat unanswered in his underwear drawer, taunting Stiles with how ridiculous he was. He hadn’t even mentioned it to his _Dad,_ for God’s sake.

And the weather got colder, and Derek kept watching Stiles with guarded eyes.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

“The winter jacket,” Stiles said suddenly. “ _That’s_ what has you acting so weird?”

Derek blinked. If he lived to be a hundred he’d never be able to predict the times when Stiles would do this, would just – connect things, with seemingly no evidence. He loved it, even when he hated it.

“You thought I’d go home,” Stiles said, stilted.

Derek huffed out a breath and threw his hands out, “You’re calling it _home_ , Stiles.”

“My _Dad_ is there,” he shot back, outraged. “It’s always going to be home on some level.”

“Well you never said-”

“I didn’t think I _had_ to say-”

They both came to a halt then, and looked away from each other.

Derek bit his bottom lip.

Then Stiles said, very small, “Do you want me to go?”

“What? No, of course not.” Derek took an involuntary step closer.

Some of the tension bled out of Stiles’ shoulders. “Right. Okay.” Then he frowned, “So why are we fighting?”

“I don’t know!” Then Derek huffed and ran a hand over his face. He mumbled, “Because we didn’t use our words, I guess. The usual.”

“Boys are stupid,” Stiles said. “That’s Kira’s mantra.”

“Sounds about right.”

They exchanged sheepish smiles.

“Okay,” Stiles said, “well. Derek, I’m driving over to actually buy a coat at Schnee’s this time. A winter coat, because I’m planning to stay here, with you, until I’m no longer welcome. Is that okay?”

Derek could feel the tiny, embarrassing smile on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah Stiles, that’s okay with me.”

He got a beautiful, bashful smile in return, and _oh shit_ , something inside Derek was just _melting_. “Back soon.”

“Stiles,” Derek called as he got to the door. “Take a look at gloves and boots as well. Especially if you’re going to keep working at Oldham’s.”

Stiles smiled again, sketched out a ridiculous cowboy salute that had Derek laughing, and was gone.

Outside, as the Jeep door opened, Derek heard him mutter, “Nicola is definitely giving me homework for this fuck up.”

 

 

 

 

Like a lot of shitty things, it happened absolutely out of the blue.

 

 

Derek was in his workshop. The drill fell from his hand to the benchtop, and he staggered back, shocked and confused.

Something was itching at his skin. He took a breath, tried to shake it off but he couldn’t settle he couldn’t _think_ , and there was a bizarre feeling of pressure in his head that he’d never experienced before.

He stumbled out and found Stiles in the kitchen, moving fast and efficiently, pulling something out of a drawer and sliding it under his plaid overshirt. When Stiles glanced up his face was set. “You’re getting that, too?” he demanded. “Right?”

“What?” Derek managed to get out.

“The _wards_ ,” Stiles spat. “Something’s here.” He pressed his thumb over the skin on his wrist, muttering quietly, and as Derek watched the skin under his thumb glowed briefly. Right. The Sheriff had mentioned this. The whole pack had tiny magical tattoos they could use as a danger signal.

“Something- what?” Derek said. “Stiles, no. There’s no-one who’d be interested-”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” Stiles said grimly, “but my wards don’t lie.”

Adrenaline roared through Derek and oh wow, how very much had he _not_ missed that feeling.  At least it washed away any fuzziness. “Shit,” he said. Then, “let’s go.”

Stiles gave him a pitying look. “Derek, unless it’s a standard human crossing those wards, whatever it is will be here in about twenty more seconds. Your land’s not that big. The pack will know by now that something’s up, but it’ll be a long time before they can make it to Montana.”

Derek sent a despairing look around the house. So much glass- it was about as defensible as a gelato bar.

“The barn?” He offered, desperate. It might be small enough for a mountain ash line.

Stiles shrugged, face set in lines that were far too familiar. “We can try.”

 

 

It was a pretty ill-fated attempt, Derek knew. Whatever was coming for them hadn’t come all this way to hold back – and was it coming for Derek, or for Stiles?

They’d made it almost to the door of the barn before a body barrelled straight into Derek, bowling him over and sending him rolling through across the gravel. He landed with a grunt, straight up on his feet, and landed some solid blows of his own even before he’d recognized his opponent.

Fucking _Tyrone_. Had to be, he supposed. Seemed like fate – well, the fucked up kind that made up the last fifteen years of Derek’s life, anyway.

Over Hellyer’s shoulder he could see Stiles facing another wolf, his face set, a knife held in his hand like it was an extension of his arm and a taser in the other. Then there was a strange sound, Stiles’ body jerked, and his eyes flew to meet Derek’s, shocked.

“You fucking _coward_ , Hellyer,” he slurred out, then dropped to his knees. Derek spotted the dart protruding from his back as he began to slump forward. And then Derek was fighting not just Tyrone, but two more betas, and it didn’t take too long after that, no matter how much adrenaline he had.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry but there's going to be a few slightly cliffhanger-y endings for the next few chapters. it's all written, I won't leave you hanging, but yeah. there just wasn't another way to break the action up.  
> *evil chuckle*


	22. Chapter 22

 

Derek came to chained to a chair.

It was almost nostalgic.

His eyes flicked to the right, zeroing in on the scent of Stiles, who was, thankfully, still alive, and tied up in a chair of his own. Keeping careful control of his breathing, he took in his surroundings in one brief glance, then slammed his eyes shut. Tyrone had dragged them into the barn – too polite to torture them inside Derek’s home?

More likely he was paranoid about any booby traps Stiles may have laid in the house. It was clear from the tactic of using a sedative to take Stiles out from a distance that Tyrone was wary of engaging with the younger man.

Derek could feel a vague sense of admiration trying to stir beneath the panic and resignation. He’d always known Stiles was remarkable. But for a human to not only survive the role of Emissary with almost no preparation, but to prove enough of a threat that a ‘wolf was _afraid to fight him_ …

Derek took a steadying breath and stayed as still as possible. The longer he had to think about things, the more chance there was he might come up with a way out. He could hear and smell the three wolves, waiting on the other side of the room, but it seemed none of them had been looking directly at Derek when he opened his eyes. At least, they weren’t moving or reacting at all.

What could Tyrone possibly _want?_ What could this kind of attack gain for him? Stiles wasn’t an Emissary anymore. There were rules about what Tyrone could and couldn’t do, and unless the Hellyer’s had declared war on the McCall pack, this was seriously outside the bounds of pack law.

Derek let that tick over in his head and took stock of his body instead. He’d taken some hits when they’d overwhelmed him, but since none of them was an alpha he was completely healed now, if a little sore from the beating they’d handed out.

If Derek could get free, if Stiles was conscious, they’d have a chance. Derek could fight two on one if he had to, and Stiles no doubt could handle himself. The alternative was to wait until someone arrived from Beacon Hills, but there was no way that was going to happen in time. Tyrone was sloppy and impatient, and whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t want to wait for it.

Derek kept his breathing even and thought through a few ways he could smash the chair they’d bound him to while he waited for Stiles to wake up. If he busted the back his arms would still be chained but he’d be mobile…

Nothing was going to happen while Stiles was still unconscious, Derek knew. Tyrone had come armed specifically for taking down the human without killing him. However this had started, it was a personal vendetta now, and Stiles was the target.

 

 

 

Stiles stirred awake about fifteen minutes later, would be Derek’s best guess.

Derek only noticed because he was so attuned to the younger man, and he could almost smile at the similarities between them. There was a slight shift in the pattern of his breathing, almost undetectable, the tiniest noise from the chair as his bodyweight went from slack to conscious.

Sadly, Tyrone had also obviously been monitoring Stiles.

“Wakey wakey,” he snarked. Derek opened his eyes, no need to pretend anymore, and watched with his stomach churning as Hellyer crossed to stand in front of Stiles.

Stiles lifted his head and stared straight at Tyrone. His face was absolutely unreadable.

Derek cut his eyes toward the two betas. They were watching him, not Stiles, and they were ranged far enough apart that whatever he tried, he couldn’t take them both out at once.

“Long time no see,” Stiles said. He sounded very calm. Hell, even his scent and heartbeat registered as calm. It was kind of freaking Derek out, to be honest. “Shame it wasn’t longer.”

“But how could I stay away,” Tyrone said, “with all the trouble you’re causing for me? You have been a pain in my ass for the last time, Stilinski.”

“Mm-hmm,” Stiles said, “Yeah, whatever. How about you skip straight to the part where you tell me what exactly you think is going to happen here. Because honestly, a genuine villain monologue from you right now will definitely make me vomit. That sedative dart you oh-so-bravely used has already got my stomach churning.”

“Now now. No need to get bitchy just because things haven’t gone your way.”

“Unlike you,” Stiles said. “Since you are, apparently, _still_ mad about being outmanoevered by Derek _five years ago_ when you first approached the pack.  Can I just say–” he glanced across to the two betas “-you guys really could do better. You seem to be fairly competent henchmen, I’m not sure why you’d be following this stupid piece of shit.”

“They understand loyalty,” Tyrone hissed. “Unlike you.”

“Yeah, but do they understand _competency?”_ Stiles shot back. “Because so far you’ve used the very brave tactic of trying to poison me through a third party, and now sedating me. _And_ you gave me enough time to get a warning off to my pack, so even if you get whatever it is you want, they’re going to know you were here and will undo your work in a heartbeat.”

Tyrone straightened. “I don’t give a shit about your pathetic little pack. And they’re not going to be a problem because you are going to retract your bullshit statement about Otis and the poison, and I’ll be cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“Wow.” Stiles said. He looked at Derek for the first time. “Just, wow. He thinks a retracted statement under duress is going to make everything go away, including that _confession from Otis_.”

“Yeah,” Derek had to agree. “Remember that time we were fighting an eighty year old man who had terminal cancer? Now there was a criminal mastermind who got shit _done_. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

“Hilarious,” the wolf said, unbothered.

“Tell me something,” Stiles said. “How exactly are you planning to get this statement? Torture me? Because-”

“No, I think I’ll torture Derek,” Tyrone said, smiling.

The words dried up in Stiles mouth and his face went very, very blank.

“From the way you left Beacon Hills in the dust the minute you weren’t an Emissary anymore – you’re welcome by the way – I’m guessing there’s still some emotional-”

“You lay one finger on Derek,” Stiles said soft and toneless, “and I’ll make certain you are dead by nightfall. Do you understand me?” Derek could feel the short hairs on his arms and neck standing up at the sound of the younger man’s voice. He’d known Stiles was an efficient Emissary, he’d known Stiles was brilliant. He hadn’t known he was terrifying.

Tyrone sneered at him. “You’re not exactly in a position to make threats, _faggot_. Or are you forgetting I have you both exactly where I want you?” He strolled over to Derek and crouched in front of him, grinning. Oh, Derek remembered this from when they were children. Tyrone’s favourite way of hurting people and and then later claiming it was an accident.

He rested his hands on Derek’s thighs, almost friendly, then extended his claws and raked them slowly, almost playfully, from hips to knees, leaving huge furrows in his wake.

Derek set his jaw and held back the pained moans he wanted to make. Hot blood welled up along his legs and he looked down, happy to avoid both Tyrone’s insane grin and Stiles’ terrifying lack of expression. He hadn’t hit an artery, probably due to pure dumb luck.

“You are a dead man,” Stiles said, low and certain.

“I think, Stiles,” Tyrone said, straightening, “that you might want to watch how you speak to me.” He straightened and circled around to stand behind Derek. “For Derek’s sake, if nothing else.” He rested his hands on either side of Derek’s neck in another mocking parody of friendliness, and once again let his claws drag slowly along Derek’s shoulders, digging in deep. Derek set his jaw and closed his eyes.

“Even if I did retract my statement,” Stiles said, the words coming faster, “you have to know that afterwards I’d report this and dig you into even deeper shit.”

Tyrone didn’t pause, just shifted direction from shoulder to elbow. Derek gritted his teeth and let out a slow, hissing breath as the claws dragged through muscle and tendon, snagging and catching occasionally on bone.

Stiles finished, “Which means you’ve got no intention of letting _either_ of us go, and so there’s no reason on this earth for me to give you what you want.”

Tyrone stepped away from Derek and faced Stiles. “Maybe I’ll just kill Derek, then,” he said. “Leave him behind as the victim in an obvious domestic spat gone wrong. Let’s see how much weight the Council puts on your statement when you’re behind bars for murder.”

 _“Moron,”_ Stiles said, voice fairly snapping with rage. “I think you’re forgetting that this is not some supernatural town where they sweep dead bodies under the rug if the pack asks them to. This place _will_ investigate.” He lifted his chin toward the betas. “You guys happy going down as accessories to murder?”

They shifted a little, but didn’t answer. Still, Derek heard their heartbeats kick up, heard a hard swallow.

“There’s nothing to link us to you,” Tyrone said, confident.

“Really. Okay then. Just answer me about this one tiny detail though – how did you find us? Because I only had the name of a town to go on when I got here, and I very much doubt you had better sources than _me.”_

Tyrone paused in front of Stiles, obviously confused by the question.

“So I’d guess either you bribed someone to run a search in the county records, or you asked around in town about your good friend Derek once you got here.”

Derek couldn’t see, having let his head hang forward, watching the drip of blood from his arms and legs onto the barn floor, but clearly Tyrone had reacted to one of those two options. Stiles went on without missing a beat.

“So… county records, then. You probably think that means you’ve covered your tracks, but see those searches are all automatically tracked in the back end of the databases nowadays. They’ll know which employee pulled Derek’s records. So they’ll immediately be questioned. So then the question is, will someone who’ll take a hundred bucks to run a database search risk going to jail for murder, or accessory to murder once the cops have them in an interrogation room? They’ll give you up in a heartbeat. And considering that even if you killed me too and tried for a murder/suicide – yeah, the rest of your plan was obvious too, dumbass – you’d still have a pissed off pack and a vengeful Sheriff putting pressure on the investigation.”

“They wouldn’t even have to fake anything, since I did actually submit paperwork for a restraining order against you last time we did this song and dance. So you’re an obvious person of interest in any violent crime concerning me, which means they’d find your connection to this place in ….probably a week. It’s a long drive from New Mexico. You guys stop for gas along the way? Hit a fast food joint with CCTV cameras, maybe? Use a credit card at all?”

“You think you’re so smart-”

“Not really,” Stiles shot back. “Only in comparison to you.”

“Always so quick with the insults and solving the mysteries. Got any guesses what I’m about to do now?” Tyrone asked. He turned away from Stiles as he spoke, and the smile on his face made Derek very, very uneasy. He braced himself, wondering what the hell Tyrone had in store.

“Straight back to good old, Derek, huh?” Tyrone said, and crouched in the pool of Derek’s blood between his feet. “Wow, Stilinski, you really hold on to things, dontcha.”

Derek raised his head and looked Tyrone right in the eye.

There was the faintest scent of panic from Stiles as he obviously figured it out first. _“Don’t-”_ he said. 

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so I feel as though the sexual references in this part might be worth a trigger warning, but I can't actually figure out what to warn for, so if anyone wants to make recommendations in the comments, I will happily take feedback.

 

Tyrone leaned in nice and close.

Derek braced himself. He was _not_ going to give this son of a bitch any satisfaction.

“He sucked me off, y’know,” Tyrone said, eyes gleaming. Then jammed his claws deep into Derek’s belly.

 _Oh_.

The words hit Derek worse than the stab in the gut. He folded up over Tyrone’s claws, but couldn’t keep silent, and a pained, _“No,”_ escaped him, followed by something like a sob from Stiles.

Derek grunted out without thinking, “You and everyone else, from what I hear.” Tyrone pulled his hand back, not gently, and the gush of blood from Derek’s stomach began to pool in his lap. Wincing, he glanced to the side and took in the mix of agony and rage and _shame_ on Stiles’s face. Derek closed his eyes and slumped in his chair, felt the wet fabric of his jeans and shirt stuck to his skin, warm with his blood.

And then, a second later, Derek realized how it had happened. _No way_ Stiles had hooked up with _Tyrone Hellyer_ knowingly.

Derek, you _moron_.

It was so obvious. Tyrone, that _asshole_ , had put himself in Stiles’ path, as one of those anonymous encounters in Beacon Hills. Derek wondered how long the wolf had waited before he’d taunted Stiles with that. He looked back at Stiles, trying to convey without words that he understood.

And then he blinked, because even as he watched, Stiles’ pained grimace was transforming into a calculating look that Derek recognised immediately. He was struck by a sudden crazy hope.

That was what Stiles looked like when he was making leaps and connections no-one else could, when he was seeing a possible way out of an impossible situation.

Stiles squared his jaw. _Here we go,_ Derek thought, hoping he could keep up. Hah. _Just like old times_.

“I hope you weren’t hoping to walk away feeling special, or anything, Tyrone,” Stiles tossed out, though his eyes were still on Derek. “I mean, you obviously came looking for me, but I don’t actually remember you, since you didn’t have the balls to introduce yourself.”

Oh shit. Derek’s shredded gut lurched. “Congrats, I guess,” Derek said, and he could only hope he’d guessed right.  He kept his eyes on Stiles for a long second before he turned back toward the beta, “For uh. Embracing your true self?”

There was a frigid pause.

“What?” Tyrone said stupidly, completely wrong-footed. He gaped at Derek, mouth open.

“I mean, it was always pretty obvious when we were kids, but I sort of thought you’d keep on living in denial, if I’m honest,” Derek said, and from the corner of his eye he saw Stiles give a tiny nod, the two betas in the corner shift uneasily, glancing from Derek to Tyrone and back again. Stiles’ right shoulder flexed slightly in a way Derek remembered intimately. He’d got at least one hand free of his bonds, then.

“Obv- _what?_ No.” and Tyrone turned on a dime, insane rage sweeping across his face. He punched Derek, hard enough to slam his head back into the wall, but while Derek was blinking through the near-unconsciousness he heard Stiles pick up the thread without a pause.

Bless him.

“Hey, it’s okay, man,” Stiles said. “No judgement here. This is a safe space. You can be honest.”

“You _shut the fuck up_ ,” Tyrone hissed, swinging toward Stiles.

“How’d your parents take it?” Derek slurred, because he couldn’t risk having Tyrone near Stiles when he was in this kind of rage. He needed the other wolf to focus on Derek, and give Stiles time to do whatever it was he was doing.

“Shut up about my parents, you _faggot_.”

“I guess it takes one-” Stiles began.

“What, are you not out to them yet?” Derek said desperately.

“I’m not a faggot, I’m _nothing_ like _you_.”

“Oh right, _of course,”_ Stiles said, so calm and casual it shocked Tyrone into silence. “You’re not queer, which is why you went to a gay club and got a blowjob from a man and now you’re boasting about it. Least gay thing ever.”

He let that sit for just a second. And then he turned his head and lifted a mocking brow at the other wolves in the room. “You guys look uneasy. What, does your alpha not approve of homosexuality?”

 _“Shut up,”_ Tyrone raged.

The two betas exchanged glances, and it didn’t take a wolf to see the nerves rising in them.

“Wow,” Stiles said. “Really? _Really?_ In this day and age. Huh. Guess this put you in an awkward spot. I assume you’re meant to report this kind of deviant behaviour within the pack-”

Tyrone was on him in a half-second, hand closing on Stiles’s throat and they both crashed to the floor, chair smashing to the ground beneath them.

 _“No,”_ Derek screamed, but underneath his own cry came  a small, clear _snikt_ sound and Tyrone’s body jerked in surprise even as Stiles let out a grunt, trapped under Tyrone’s weight, the wolf’s claws sunk into his shoulder and flank.

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek yelled, straining toward them, and the two betas converged on him, forcing him back in the chair. They didn’t even spare Stiles a glance, so sure their leader could handle a puny human. Their mistake. Derek heard another _snikt_ even as he fought against the two of them.

Then there was a choking sound. All three of them turn toward it.

Tyrone was gasping, short and sharp, his eyes fixed on Stiles. There was something sticking out of his shoulder. Derek could also see a short sharp blade sticking out of Stiles’ boots, and the blood dripping from Tyrone’s calf onto the barn floor.

Stiles was staring at him with flat, cold eyes. “ _Get off me_ , you shitstain,” he said, voice low and furious.

Amazingly, Tyrone did. He rolled off and scrambled back, head turning to stare at his leg, that low, choked sound still coming out of his mouth.

Still lodged in his thigh was a vaguely medical-looking cylinder, the same kind of thing, Derek realized, that was sticking out of Tyrone’s shoulder. Derek blinked at it stupidly for a few seconds before he realized he was looking at an Epi-Pen, or something very like it.

Stiles pushed himself back on his hands until there was space between him and Tyrone.

“That was two concentrated doses of a custom mix of wolfsbane I make myself,” he said coolly, ignoring the blood running down from his shoulder, his side. His eyes were hard, focused on Tyrone, but after a second he shifted his focus to the two wolves holding Derek down and shoved to his feet, leaning against a rickety old kitchen hutch for support.

“If you want him to get the antidote,” Stiles said, voice like steel, “you’ll get out of Montana right the fuck _now_.”

Tyrone snarled and made a half-hearted lunge toward the human, but Stiles scrambled back and kept his focus on the betas. “Sure you can try to beat it out of me, but that’s time you don’t have. And if you accidentally kill me, you’ll _definitely_ never get the antidote, because I can promise you I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

“So you can either drive this waste of space out of this town and wait for my call, which at least gives you the faintest chance of bringing the alpha’s son home safe and sound. _Or_ you can make an even bigger fucking mess here, and end up explaining to your alpha why his son is dead, and on top of that, why you’ve dragged him into a war with another pack, without his permission.”

There was silence. Derek stared at Stiles, who was pissed-off and bleeding and pale as milk, but was also undoubtedly the only person in the room who was in control of the situation.

The two betas were looking uneasily at each other, while Derek stared at Tyrone, who was struggling to get to his hands and knees. _Jesus._ Whatever was in that thing was potent.

“He has twenty minutes, tops,” Stiles said. “Chop chop.”

Tyrone lunged toward him again, but Stiles eeled back from him, almost casually, and the wolf fell forward onto his face. Derek stared down at him, open mouthed in shock.

“Fuck,” one of the betas muttered, and jerked his head. The two of them grabbed Tyrone, one arm each, glaring at Stiles the whole time.

“Phone number?” Stiles said from the other end of the barn, where he’d somehow found a permanent marker. He dragged his sleeve up to bare his forearm and waited, expectant, like he was writing down their pizza preferences. Derek just gaped at him. “Oh, and the keys to Derek’s chains.”

The older one bit out the digits as they dragged Tyrone toward the door. The two of them stank of terror, and they looked like they would kill Stiles slowly and painfully if they could. Derek could only imagine the state of panic they had to be feeling at the thought of bringing home their alpha’s son in this state, having had his ass kicked by a human they had no business attacking in the first place. He watched as one of them tossed a key onto the floor toward Derek.

“Don’t forget to leave our phones by the door. How embarrassing if I couldn’t call you. Drive for ten minutes on the highway heading south,” Stiles said. He was circling around toward Derek. “I’ll call and tell you what happens next.”

The wolves were almost to the door and Stiles had circled the barn just enough to keep them in sight as he talked. “Don’t even _think_ about turning around,” he told them. “”Derek’s going to be listening to make sure you get the fuck out of here, and if you try to turn on me I _will_ bury you both alongside that piece of shit who brought you here, and no-one will ever find your bodies.”

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

“Holy shit,” Derek said, stumbling after him into the house. His legs were partially healed, but the shoulders and stomach were going to take longer. “ _Holy shit,_ Stiles.”

Stiles didn’t even twitch, didn’t move from where he’d placed himself at the windows to watch the three wolves hustle down the mountain toward wherever they’d left their vehicle. His face was hard and set and his focus was absolute. Almost absently he shrugged out of his bloodied plaid overshirt and slid a hand into the side of Derek’s couch. He drew out a knife and brought it up to his arm, all without taking his eyes off the view outside. Derek blinked. Somehow he wasn’t even surprised by Stiles producing a knife out of the living room furniture. Didn’t mean he was ready to see what came next.

“What,” Derek said. “Stiles, stop, wait. What are you doing?” He circled his fingers around Stiles’ wrist, not tight, just staying his hand. He took a moment to survey Stiles carefully, checking his eyes. Concussion is very bad, he remembers that much from past fights. Stiles is pale, but his eyes look normal, he’s not wincing from light or anything like that.

“Are you listening for them?” Stiles asked, insistent. The betas were about to pass out of view.

“What? Yes, of course,” Derek said. “They’re still running, there’s no other heartbeats or voices nearby.” He reached out to shove a window open and refocused his hearing, still holding Stiles’ arm. “They’re at the gate now. I’d guess they left their car near the road.”

Stiles gave a grim nod. “If I was going to double back this is when I’d do it.”

“They’re not going to double back, Stiles. They are shitting their pants right now,” Derek said. “Now what exactly is happening with the knife.”

“I need to reset the wards once they’ve cleared the perimeter.”

“Not with your blood, you’re not,” Derek said, firm. “You’ve lost enough today already.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He gestured impatiently and Derek blinked, a little shocked at the casual agreement, considering the meltdown that had happened last time and the fact that Derek’s left hand was still holding his stomach wound closed.

Still, he extended his other arm and Stiles sliced into his forearm without hesitation. Stiles reached around behind Derek and grabbed a small green glass bowl that held various nuts and autumn leaves he sometimes collected. He tipped the contents out onto the side table and held the bowl under Derek’s arm to catch the red drips. Derek’s lips peeled back from his teeth and he refocused on the sounds outside to distract from the bright new pain.

“They’re climbing over the gate onto the road,” Derek told Stiles. “Sounds like one of them is waiting with Tyrone while the other runs for the car.”

“Risky for us,” Stiles commented, “if they’re spotted. Hopefully they’ve got enough brains to keep Tyrone out of sight of any cars. Still, he’d look enough like someone in anaphylactic shock to convince the cops, and his father would presumably keep his mouth shut and back that story up if necessary.”

His mind was clearly racing through every possible tripwire they could set off in the next few minutes, hours, days, even as he watched Derek’s blood collect in the bowl. Derek stared, fascinated, as Stiles took the bowl from Derek’s hand and turned to the window, painting runes straight onto the glass. Derek clamped his hand down harder onto the stomach wound, and went out to the half-finished deck, nudging the sliding glass door open with a foot. He inhaled deeply, trying to detect any trace, however faint, of strange wolves or other humans or anyone other than himself, Stiles, and their three unwelcome guests.

Nothing.

Dimly, down on the road, he could hear a vehicle, engine revved too high, then the crunch of tyres braking hard in gravel. Muttered voices, moans, sounds familiar enough that he got a picture of an extremely unwell Tyrone being manhandled into a car. Then there was retching, and Derek’s brows flew up. Tyrone was already vomiting the black goo Derek remembered way too vividly. Whatever Stiles’ proprietary mix of wolfsbane was made of, it was vicious and fast-acting. No wonder Tyrone had struggled to control his limbs in the immediate aftermath. Two doses must have been as disorienting as hell.

“They’re in the car,” Derek threw the words over his shoulder, back toward the living room. “Tyrone’s already throwing up.”

“ _Good_ ,” he heard Stiles mutter. “Couldn’t happen to a more deserving piece of shit.”

Derek almost smiled. _Almost_. Fuck.

He sat down, suddenly, dropped down into the gap between two of the support beams to land on the dirt beneath, and let his butt rest on the wide beam. “Shit,” he said. Adrenaline crashes were _bullshit_ and he had not missed them. At all.

He lifted his hand away from his stomach for a half-second to check the wound. Then eyed the new cut on his arm. It was bleeding sluggishly, lower priority for his body’s healing than any of the others. He looked at the red line, a long, expert slice, made without hesitation. Emissary Stiles had made that cut. No emotion, no doubting himself. There was only what needed to be done.

Derek kept his hearing tuned toward the car now speeding down the road, away from the gate. He glanced over his shoulder and met Stiles’ eyes through the window. “They’re leaving,” Derek said.

Stiles gave him a sharp nod and drew two more runes on the window in Derek’s blood before stepping through to balance on the beams of the half-finished deck.

“Now what?” Derek asked.

Stiles was staring into the far distance. “I’ll notify Scott everything’s okay. Call Dad so he doesn’t have to hear about this from Scott.”

“I meant, how are we going to stop Tyrone coming after us again. If he found us here…”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at Derek. “Tyrone?” His voice was calm and even. “Tyrone’s not going to be a problem. His father, possibly. But I guess we’ll have to wait and see on that one.”

“How can you possibly know that Ty-” Derek began, then stopped as Stiles met his eyes. Oh. _Ohhh_. Derek drew in a slow breath.

“I told him what would happen if he hurt you,” Stiles said softly, eyes hooded, bloodied knife still clenched in his hand.

Derek swallowed.

“I’m not an Emissary any more, Derek,” Stiles said, and turned to the mostly-finished half of the deck. His eyes swept the horizon without pause. “I’m a civilian now, and a member of a pack the Hellyer’s signed a peace treaty with. Tyrone and his buddies violated three different clauses of that treaty, and broke two pack laws outright. I’d like to see them try to swing this back on us, especially once Tyrone is dead.”

“Dead,” Derek repeated.

Stiles regarded him thoughtfully, head tilted. “You actually think I’m going to give that psychopath the cure for wolfsbane poisoning? After what he just did? After all he’s done _before_ today?”

Derek gaped at him.

“Paranoia wasn’t the only skill I honed while you were gone, Derek,” Stiles said calmly. “I learned cold, hard logic as well. Tyrone is our enemy, and he’s an enemy that has no care for rule or law. You don’t leave a guy like that standing if you can possibly help it. If he’d given me a scenario stacked in my favour like this while I was in Beacon Hills I’d have turned him to ashes in a fuckin’ _heartbeat_ and walked away whistling. He’s in the wrong here, _he’s_ the aggressor, and I’m just a helpless human who was lucky enough to be able to defend himself,” his eyes glinted.

“But you- you told the betas-”

He raised a brow. ‘You think I owed them honesty after they invaded neutral territory, assaulted us both for no reason, without even the permission of their alpha, and maybe what’s even worse, for seemingly no good reason at all except that Tyrone is both stupid and psychotic?”

Derek didn’t really have an answer for that.

“I didn’t owe those guys the truth. I don’t even owe them common fucking courtesy. There’s no warrior’s code here. Let them carry Tyrone’s dead body home to his father and reap what they’ve fucking well sown. Hellyer, too. His pack is clearly out of control, so fuck him sideways.” 

Derek just nodded dumbly. It’s true. None of what happened here was okay, was acceptable in the normal way packs interact. He’d just gotten so used to aggression and subterfuge as a way of life that he’s forgotten there are meant to be rules.

“So, _no_ , Derek,” Stiles said calmly. “I won’t be giving them the antidote. If you want the truth - for that kind of dose, there isn’t one. I found a way to liquify wolfsbane for a reason. I call it the Permanent Solution.” Now he smiled nastily. “Try lighting _that_ on fire to treat the wound. You can’t cure it, and I won’t lose a second of sleep worrying about the morality of it all. Tyrone brought it on himself.”

Derek swallowed, then nodded. “You’re right.”

“Damn straight,” Stiles said, and then his knees gave out and he sagged against the timber railing. “Uh.”

Derek sighed, almost smiling. He glanced down at himself. His legs were pretty well healed, shoulders shouldn’t be far behind. “Sit down before you fall down,” he said. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“The one in my car is pretty well stocked,” Stiles told him, and Derek nodded, fatalistic.

“I’ll just bet.”

 

 

 

Derek patched Stiles up and hated, _hated_ the familiarity of it. He pressed a glass of water into the younger man’s hand and said nothing as Stiles made the call to Scott. He was terse, clinical and unmoved by Scott’s obvious fury. Derek, on the other hand, could feel his heart racing at the emotion in Scott’s voice. It brought up way too many bad associations, memories he’d never be able to shake.

The call to the Sheriff was almost worse.

“Dad,” Stiles said, ignoring the close attention Derek was paying to the claw marks on his side. It was all he said, but it was clearly enough.

 _“Stiles,”_ the Sheriff said, voice so tightly controlled that Derek winced. “Tell me.”

“I’m okay,” he said immediately. “I swear.”

There was nothing from the other end of the phone though Derek could faintly detect rapid breathing.

He watched grief and guilt sweep over Stiles’ face, though he stayed staring stonily ahead. “Derek, tell him,” Stiles commanded, and held the phone between them.

“He’s all right, sir,” Derek said immediately. “A little banged up but fine. I’m doing first aid right now but there’s nothing serious.”

More silence, then the older man’s voice came, low and pained. “God DAMN it, Stiles.” There was no anger or frustration there, not aimed at Stiles anyway.

“I know,” Stiles said, very quietly. He bowed his head. “I know, Dad. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he replied on a sigh, and Stiles actually winced at that. “Anyone we know?”

“Tyrone,” Stiles said, and over the sound of the Sheriff’s sharply indrawn breath, added hastily, “he got two doses of the Permanent Solution, so. At least that’s over.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m very sure. And he had no grounds to be here in the first place, so.”

“Derek, I know you can hear me. What are his injuries?”

Derek and Stiles locked eyes. “Uh,” Derek said.

 _“Derek,”_ Noah said, steely.

Stiles rolled his eyes and managed a smile that looked about as painful as getting electrocuted by a car battery. He shrugged and moved the phone a little closer to Derek.

Derek took a breath and made sure his voice was even, calm. “He’s marked up a little on one shoulder and his side, but nothing too deep. He hit his head, and I’d like to do a proper check for concussion, but. Nothing too bad, sir, I promise.”

Stiles sent him a look of such gratitude he had to look away.

There was silence, then the Sheriff said, “I’m coming to see for myself.”

Stiles started to protest just as Derek said, “That would be great.”

The look of betrayal he got would have been funny in other circumstances.

“You’ve got room for me then?”

“For you? Always,” Derek said, on automatic. The look Stiles gave him was full of emotion and for a moment their eyes locked, everything else falling away.

“Give me a day,” Noah said. “I love you, Stiles.”

“Love you too, Dad,” he said automatically,  gaze returning to the phone, and then they were both listening to a dial tone.

 

 

 

Derek tried not to listen in on the call Stiles had made to the Hellyer betas, but of course his hearing didn’t exactly allow him to skip it.

Tyrone was clearly drawing his last breaths, judging from the panicked voices of the two betas.

“There’s no antidote,” Stiles said flatly. “I lied. About that, anyway. I told the truth when I said he had until nightfall if he laid a finger on Derek. Tyrone, if you’re not already dead, you will be by the time I hang up. Enjoy hell, asshole.”

Stiles sat and waited patiently while they cursed and threatened. When they finally ran out of steam, and Tyrone was taking what sounded like his last, labouring breaths, he said:

“You have two choices: take him home to the pack and accept your alpha’s judgement, or dump him in a forest and go on the run. I don’t give a shit which one you do, but I’ll be informing your alpha about this mess either way. And if you get any stupid ideas about coming back here for revenge, take a second to look at Tyrone and think again.” And then he said, “I’ll be making that call in half an hour. You should probably make a decision before then.” he said, then hung up.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say that I do read all the comments I get, even if I don't reply to them all. Sorry. It's just that my writing time is limited, and in general I'm assuming you'd rather I finish the story than reply to every comment, lol. Every comment is appreciated.

 

He actually _timed_ the half-hour, which was attention to detail Derek hadn’t expected, then dialled a number and put the phone on speaker. Derek’s own phone was being put to use recording the whole conversation. It was strangely businesslike and cold-blooded, and Derek couldn’t help but wonder how many of these types of phone calls Stiles had ever had to make.

“I need to speak to Alpha Hellyer.”

“Who is this?”

“A former Emissary who’s just received a visit from Tyrone Hellyer.”

There was a moment’s pause, then the unidentified voice said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to get the Alpha to call you ba-”

“He’s dead, by the way,” Stiles said coolly, “so if you’re trying to give your Alpha space to call his son and find out what shitstorm he’s created this time, don’t bother.”

Derek winced.

There was stunned silence at the other end of the line. Stiles didn’t even pause.

“Tyrone Hellyer invaded peaceful territory and attacked two non-combatants of a peaceful pack. He got exactly what was coming to him. The two morons you’re currently missing and who were with him are alive, and will either run for their lives, or come home bearing the body with their tails between their legs. It’s up to you what happens to them.”

There was a new voice, snarling, almost unintelligible. “You fucking-”

“Alpha Hellyer, I’d advise you to stop focusing on me and my pack, and perhaps look to your own. Your betas are out of control, and have no respect for Council law. _Or_ , apparently, your authority.” Derek winced again. Wow, Stiles used words like a knife to the ribs.

“I’ll _kill_ you-”

“And it’s not exactly smart of you to be threatening me considering I’ve acted precisely within pack law, and will be making a report of this incident to the Council.”

“If you think-”

“That’s all I have to say.” Stiles hadn’t even raised his voice, not once. “At times such as this I know it’s traditional to offer my condolences for your loss but honestly I think I did you a huge favour, removing a wild card that was poisoning your pack dynamics. Take a good look around the mess that is your pack, Alpha, and stay away from me and mine. Oh, and also? I’ll be instigating lethal defences to protect myself and my pack in future, so if you get any stupid ideas about some revenge kick, I _promise_ you it’ll cost you a lot more than it costs me. I have more than enough Hellyer blood on my floor to make some _very_ focused defences, and after today’s display I’m fairly sure I’ll have a free hand from the Council for anything I feel would make me and my pack safer.”

Without waiting for any reply, he pressed the button to end the call, then the recording.

Derek let out an explosive breath. _“Jesus_ , Stiles.”

Those cool amber eyes met his. “Too much?”

Derek shook his head and ran a hand over his face. “Blood on the floor? Hellyer blood?”

The younger man made a face at that one, and abruptly became more Stiles-like. “ _Well_. It’s not like he’s likely to see the body, and it did have a certain ring to it. I could scrape up some to use if I needed to. But honestly, blood-based wards aren’t that great of an idea to fend off an attack – I mean, it’s not hard to bribe or manipulate someone else into doing the dirty work, so if the relatives don’t show up you’ve wasted all your efforts.”

Derek had no idea what to say to that, but Stiles, at least, had mentally moved on. He looked down at himself and grimaced. “Okay, I’m going to take a shower.”

Derek was still nodding and staring out the window when he heard the water come on.

Fuck. Fucking _hell_. He let out a long sigh and tried to let go of some of the instinctive terror that came with picturing Alpha Hellyer – who had loomed large in kid-Derek’s nightmares – and the rage that must be fuelling him right now. And Stiles had just… cool as a cucumber. Derek had known he was good, but. Stiles was _unbelievable_.

“Thank God he’s on our side,” he told the blood-marked windows ruefully, and went to find some food.  

 

 

Derek ate, barely tasting the food but knowing that his body needed the fuel for healing. He’d hoped the shower might help settle Stiles, but instead he seemed to be even more keyed up. Too much time to think, Derek figured. And nothing really to do, to keep busy.

He refused to eat, paced outside the house, then inside, then outside again. Derek sighed and made himself shower and change into warmer clothes, as the sun began to set.

The next time Stiles entered the house Derek was waiting for him.

“Stiles,” he said. “Stop. Sit down for a minute.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. They’re gone. Tyrone’s dead, and as for the others - you’ve laid out their choices, and it’s up to them now.”

For a long moment they stared at one another and then Stiles just… deflated.

He sank into a chair and stared blankly at the food Derek put in front of him.

“Eat,” Derek urged.

He did. It was mechanical and far too fast, but Derek wasn’t about to argue. He just sat, and watched, and waited. Stiles cleared his plate and sat back, staring silently at the table.

Derek folded his hands in his lap and tried to guess where Stiles’ thoughts would go.

He wasn’t even remotely close.

“I mean- I have to go. Obviously.” Stiles said, when there had been silence for a good twenty minutes. He was grinding the heel of his hand into his eye.

“What?” Derek straightened in his chair.

“I have to leave – I can’t stay here.”

“Why.”

That got him an incredulous glare. “Are you kidding me?”

“He was here for _me_. For me, Derek, bad shit happening because of me. _Again_.” He slammed a hand down on the table. “You could have _died_ , you _were_ hurt, yet again, because of me. I did this. I brought this trouble to your door, made this place insecure, because how did he know where I was? Somebody talked. Because of me.”

He took a shaky breath. “I can’t stay here. I can’t bring this shit to your life.”

“You’re _leaving_ me?” Derek’s voice cracked.

Stiles looked up, blinking. His eyes were… shocky. “There’s something-” he gestured shakily to his chest. “There’s something _wrong_. With me,” he clarified. “Inside. Has to be. Why else would this crap keep h-”

“Like me,” Derek interrupted. “Right? Considering Paige. And then Kate, and then Jennifer. There must be something wrong with _me_. Why else would this stuff keep happening to me.”

“No,” Stiles said. “No, Derek, that’s not-”

“If you’re going to blame yourself then I will too. Why did I follow Kate with Jennifer.”

Stiles gaped at him. He’d lost all the snap and fire that was Stiles. Instead he was staring back at Derek with the most defeated eyes he’d ever seen.

“Please tell me you don’t think that,” Stiles said softly.

Derek gave him a pointed look. Stiles turned his face away.

He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. After a long time he said softly, “I can’t stand that I brought this here. Your life here, it’s so peaceful. It’s calm and clean and _normal_. Or it was until I got here.”

“It was also _empty_ , Stiles,” Derek said. “Apart from Terry, who’s at college most of the year, the only interaction I had with people was to buy eggs from the Oldham’s, collect my post in town, and buy groceries.”

Stiles kept his eyes on his hands and chewed at his lower lip. Finally, he said, “I thought… you’d be angry. That maybe it would be easier if I – if I said it first.” He made a pained face that in no way resembled a smile. “Better to offer to leave than be kicked out.”

Derek took a deep breath and reminded himself, _winter coat_. They had to _talk_ to one another. “I don’t blame you. The only one to blame is Tyrone. He started all of this, years ago, and now he came back to do it again. _He’s_ responsible for all of this – your injuries, mine, and his own consequences. And it would take more than this,” he said honestly, “for me to wish you were gone.” He took a deep breath and said very quietly, “I know what that’s like, Stiles, to not have you around. I didn’t like it, and I would never choose it if there was any other option.”

Stiles blinked down at the floor, then tilted his head to give Derek a sideways glance. The tiny smile that curved his mouth was sweeter than ice cream.

 

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

 

Night came, and Derek could feel himself fading. It had to be just as bad for Stiles, considering his injuries. Derek’s at least, were no longer bleeding, even if he could still feel damage under the skin.

He got into his pyjamas and sheepdogged Stiles into getting ready for bed. He changed into jeans and a hoodie rather than sleepwear, but Derek figured it was time to pick his battles carefully. What Derek wasn’t prepared for was that he himself would drop hard and fast into sleep the moment he got horizontal.

It was hours later when he awoke. He knew without opening his eyes that Stiles was not beside him. Derek sighed silently, rolled to his feet and padded out to the living room.

There was only the soft glow of one lamp in the corner of the room. Stiles was seated on the coffee table, eyes trained on the night outside, knife in one hand and taser in the other, the same way he’d been armed when Tyrone had first appeared.

“Stiles,” Derek said.

He glanced sideways at Derek, once, then returned his attention to staring out into the night.

“Stiles,” Derek tried again, “come to bed. You need some rest.”

Stiles gave a tiny shake of his head but said nothing.

“Come on. Get some sleep.”

Another headshake.

Derek let out a slow breath and rounded the table to crouch in front of the younger man. “What do you need? To be able to come down and relax?”

He got a hard, sharp shake of the head for that. “Not yet.”

“Stiles-”

“I protect you,” he said, low and fast. “That’s my job.”

Derek blinked.

“I brought this shit here, and you- what he _did_ to you.” Amber eyes ran over Derek’s body. Thighs, shoulders, arms, stomach. “Jeez, Derek you’ve had more than enough of this kind of garbage in your life. It’s my responsibility, and I _will_ clean it up.”

Derek stared at him. _I protect you._

He’d known, of course he’d known Stiles was protective of Derek. Back in Beacon Hills, he had worked so hard to run interference between Derek and Scott, had tried so, so hard to keep Cora in Derek’s life, to give him back some of the family he’d lost…

 _I protect you_.

No-one. No-one had ever… even Laura had never explicitly said that. _We’re pack. I’m your sister. I’m your alpha_. But she’d never-

“Protect me?” Derek said stupidly.

Stiles eyes lifted to his. “What?”

“You- that’s how you- you _want_ to-”

Stiles was reading his face, every vulnerability Derek had ever had. “Of _course_ ,” he said, voice cracking. “Jesus, what did you-”

“But I’m a _werewolf_ ,” Derek managed, and had to cover his mouth with his hand before he said something embarrassing.

No-one ever offered to protect _Derek_. No-one ever saw him as needing it ( _or deserving it_ , came the whisper in the back of his mind). Depending on how they knew him they saw a werewolf, or a strong, healthy young man, or an Alpha, or a born wolf-

Why the fuck would anyone offer to protect _Derek?_

And yet. He wanted it. _God_ , he wanted it. He’d been the middle child of a large pack and even when he’d hated it, he’d loved it, the knowledge that there was always a soft place to fall, whether it was his parents, or his sister, or his aunts and uncles, grandparents. There had always been _someone_ there.

Until suddenly there wasn’t. Adulthood had crashed upon him suddenly, and with the bitter flavour of knowing it was his own fault he and Laura were so very alone now.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Stiles said, voice hard. “And I protect what’s mine.”

“I’m not weak,” he heard himself assert, voice shaking.

“Of course you’re not _weak_ ,” Stiles shot back, and he sounded angry now. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?” He set his jaw. “I know we’re not- I don’t have the right, but in my head you’re _mine_ , and I’m going to try to keep the bad shit away from you if it’s the las-”

And Derek was kissing him. Couldn’t help it. Jesus, everything he’d been feeling for weeks, months, since Stiles _got here_ , just bubbled up and burst out of him.   

 

 

Stiles body caught aflame in half a second.

Derek. It was all he could think, all he could feel. He pressed closer, teetering on the edge of the coffee table, held fast against the warm strength of Derek’s body.

Derek turned his face into Stiles’ throat, freeing his mouth for a second, and Stiles heard himself say, “You’re okay.”

Derek froze for a second, then said huskily, “Yeah.”

“ _Jesus_ , you’re all right.” God, he sounded like an idiot, but suddenly it was all catching up to him, how vulnerable they were here, compared to the defences he’d spent years building up in Beacon Hills. Derek, chained to a chair, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. Derek, hearing Tyrone saying _he sucked me off…_

A big, familiar hand came up to thread through Stiles’ hair and he reached up to grip Derek’s wrist, hanging on to that lifeline. “I thought. _Fuck_. I thought you’d hate me.” A half-sob tore out of him. “When he- when he said-”

“Stiles, no,” Derek said, terrifyingly soft. “No. I just needed a minute for my brain to catch up. He tried to hurt us but he failed.”

“But he-”

“He’s gone. He can’t hurt either one of us now. And we’re not wasting another second of our time together worrying about that. Okay?”

Stiles looked into Derek’s eyes, waiting to see the shadows he knew must be there… doubt, a holding back, some misgiving. But there was nothing. Derek’s gaze was clear and steady, and there was a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth, an expression Stiles hasn’t seen in _years_.

“Seriously?” The word came out as a trembling whisper.

People thought the _fighting_ was hard, that pack wars were scary. But that was nothing, compared to _this_. The terror of opening yourself up, showing what you wanted, exposing your most secret hopes. Real terror was taking the risk of hoping, and _believing_.

“As a heart attack,” Derek said softly, and the curl got bigger, and the beautiful bunny teeth were on display, and oh God, next it’d be the dimples and Stiles just didn’t think his heart could _take_ it.

He leaned in and kissed Derek with everything he had. “I love you,” he managed, in between kisses, “I love you so fuckin _much_ , please, _please_ let me stay.”

“Yes,” Derek managed, and those strong hands were suddenly everywhere. Stiles was hauled to his feet, and _oh yeah,_ he’d missed that, the casual display of strength that was so carefully controlled every other minute of the day.

Stiles moaned, unashamed, and ground against Derek. His eyes were closed, and when Derek finally drew back, hands urging Stiles to move, no doubt headed for the bedroom, he felt a sudden, sickening lurch of familiarity and froze. _No, stop it,_ he told himself.  “Derek,” he gasped, the name like a talisman.

“What is it?” Of course, the wolf felt the way Stiles whole body jerk back, and wouldn’t just believe that it was a name said in passion.

“It’s- nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he said, and drew him into another kiss. He kept his eyes open, though, and manoeuvred them both into the hallway before a nip at the soft part of his throat had his eyes closing involuntarily. And he was in the dark again, anonymous, _lost_.

He managed not to say anything this time, though, didn’t ruin the moment, even though his heart started pounding harder and he had to breathe in deep to remind himself. _This is real. It’s Derek._

He’d managed to get his hands inside Derek’s pants despite the mild freak-out, but of course that didn’t actually help anything. Knowing his body had an autopilot while making out with a guy was not Stiles’ proudest moment. Kinda the opposite, really.

“Stiles?” Derek said, again. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, almost gritting his teeth. _Fucking hell, Stilinski, get your head in the game. How many times have you dreamed of this?_

Which was, of course, the problem. It was too easy to believe it was yet another fantasy.

He opened his eyes and found Derek watching him, measuring. “I want this,” Stiles gasped, “I do.”

“Okay,” Derek said slowly. “Then what’s wrong. Is it your injuries?”

Stiles shook his head. “No. It’s _stupid_. Just kiss me again and I’ll be all right,” he said, and tried for a smile.

But Derek didn’t move. He scanned Stiles’ face one more time, slid his hands down the length of Stiles’ arms and then said softly, “Winter coat.”

Stiles blinked, confused for a second, and then he got it. _Talk to me._

He bit his lip and gave a little huff of laughter. “Really?”

“Come on,” Derek said, and linked their hands. “You can tell me anything.  You know I’ll listen.” He made a tiny smirk and said, “Come on, Stiles. Everything we’ve been through? Just tell me.”

Stiles bit his lip. Took a shaky breath. Turning his face away, he said, low, “It’s just. I’ve done this a lot.” Stupid to worry about saying it, really. Derek already knew this. “It’s… sometimes it’s a little too familiar. When I close my eyes…” _you could be anybody_. God, he _cannot_ say that. Stiles could feel his face heat in shame.

Derek was silent for a moment. “You… need to know it’s me?”

Stiles half-shrugged, grimaced at himself. “Apparently?” Wow, what a smooth player he was.

“Well… that’s not difficult.” Derek thumbs his chin and drops a small, sweet kiss on his lips. “Come on.”

And so they walked, hand in hand, into the bedroom. No frantic grope-fest, no bodies slamming into walls. Just a firm grip in a work-roughened hand, and a faint, sidelong smile from Derek when Stiles finally dared to glance over. His heart, so strangely full, left him close to trembling, and suddenly it couldn’t have been further away from any of the encounters he’d had these last few years.

None of them had felt anything like this.

“First things first,” Derek said, when they were standing by the bed. He turned to Stiles and drew down the zipper of the hoodie, helped to ease his arm out of the sleeve without jarring the wounds in his shoulder or his side. Derek’s touch was gentle, reverent, and achingly arousing.

Then, “Lose the pants,” he said, very low, and let his own pants drop to the floor.

Stiles swallowed hard. He worked at the button and the zipper as he watched Derek climb onto the bed and pile the pillows high in the centre. Then the wolf turned away toward the bedside table, and Stiles was treated to the vision of his back, flexing in the low light of the lamp, and _that ass_.

His jeans hit the floor in a hasty shove.

Derek turned back, smiling, and positioned himself amongst the pillows, sitting up, a bottle of lube dropped on the sheets next to his thigh.

It was all so familiar, that view, and Stiles felt his throat close over. He bit his lip, and something on Derek’s face softened. He held out a hand, wordless, and Stiles scrambled gracelessly onto the bed, needing to be close.

“I have three solutions for you,” Derek said, and kissed him, soft and quick. “Come here.” He pulled Stiles onto his lap, straddling the older man, and their erections lined up instantly. Stiles inhaled sharply, looking down.

“Like this,” Derek said, “you can open your eyes and see me any time.”

Stiles looked up.

“I can shift,” Derek said, and let the beta-form take over. “So you can touch my face and know you’re with a wolf…” his voice faltered for a second, and Stiles could fill in that blank easily enough … _if that would narrow it down?_

He nodded, and said, low, “Yeah, that would help.” Stiles had at least had enough brains _not_ to fuck his way through the entire supernatural world. Almost all of his encounters had been in clubs in Beacon Hills, or San Francisco, the few times he’d ventured out of pack territory.

“And I can talk,” Derek said. He ducked his head to meet Stiles’ eyes, and his tone was unbearably gentle. “The whole time, if you want.”

Stiles took a shaky breath, heart overflowing. _Yeah_ , he’d want that. “Why are you- I don’t deserve-”

“Because I love you,” Derek interrupted, and _oh,_ that was like a punch to the chest. “Now don’t ask stupid questions.” A slow, wicked smile spread over his face. “Surely there’s better things we could be doing.”

Stiles let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Definitely better.” His hard-on hadn’t faltered the whole time, which was a real testimony to a) Derek’s hotness and b) the many horny nights Stiles had spent in this bed. He leaned in, letting his mouth find Derek’s, and laugh-gasped as their erections moved just slightly against one another.

Derek, too, moaned, then seemed to remember himself, what he’d promised. “Stiles,” the wolf said, clearly scrabbling for words. “God I missed you so much, missed this.” Stiles could hear him flip open the cap on the lube, and reached up a hand to touch Derek’s face. Those sideburns. _Unf._

“I love you,” Stiles heard himself say. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek husked, “yeah, I know.” One big hand wrapped around the both of them and Stiles sucked in a breath, eyes flying open to focus on Derek’s face. _I’m here_ , he told himself. _This is real_.

“Shit, this is going to be over _so fast_.”

“I know,” Derek said, his hand moving, “Don’t judge me. It’s been a long time.”

“I meant me,” Stiles said, and let his hands drift down to stroke Derek’s neck, his shoulders _(they’re healed, it’s fine)_ , and then drift down to that impressive chest. His hips were moving with Derek’s hand, instinctive and familiar as breathing.

“Okay then,” Derek choked out as Stiles pinched his nipples, “then we just… unh, never talk about this again. Our five second night of shame.”

Impossibly, Stiles laughed. He could already feel it, that low bubble in his belly, pleasure and heat combined but this time he had trust, he had love, he had someone who knew his secrets and could smile at him anyway, smile at him like _that_ even _,_ like Derek was doing now, Christ, he didn’t deserve it but he had it just the same and _“Oh,”_ he said, shocked, “oh Derek, shit, it’s-”

“Yeah,” Derek said, “me too,” hand moving faster, eyes falling shut and his face taking on an expression Stiles knew well, he knew _so fucking well_ what Derek looked like when he-

“God,” he cried, “God, Derek, _yes_ ,” his head fell back, eyes closing, and his mind was swept clean of anything but joy.

 


	27. Chapter 27

“Okay, now it’s your turn to sleep.”

Stiles’ eyes were drooping, his body lax and heavy. “Need to-”

“I’ll keep watch, I promise. I’ve had some sleep, it’s my turn.”

Stiles managed to gift Derek a small smile, a sigh and a look that made his heart turn clean over. Then he dropped into unconsciousness with a speed that was astonishing to witness.

 

 

It turned out to be easy enough to stay awake.

Derek wasn’t sorry, but. He was worried. That tended to happen, when something counted for, oh, _everything_. He knew himself well enough to know that no matter when this had happened, he’d have freaked out a bit. Lucky him, it had happened post-battle, post-injury, and on the spur of the moment.

He sighed deeply and looked down at Stiles, asleep beside him.

He couldn’t lose him again. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

 

 

 

They didn’t get a proper morning after – awkward or not. Derek was in the kitchen brewing coffee for them both when he caught the sound of car tires on the gravel outside. He froze for a second, then spun toward the bedroom door only to find Stiles already there, jeans pulled on but unbuttoned, hoodie clutched in his hand. There were still creases on his face from the pillow, but he did at least have some colour in his face now.

They stared at one another wide-eyed, then bolted for the back door without speaking.

Turned out that for once in their lives, there actually was nothing to panic about.

 

 

 

 _“Dad,”_ the word burst out of Stiles like he’d been holding it in for days, and he _ran_ for the car.

Noah got out and flung himself toward Stiles and they were gripping one another so hard, and out of nowhere, Derek was swamped with jealousy and grief so thick he actually choked on it.

He would never have that again. Would never be able to fling himself at his father, would never feel his mother’s arms close around him. It had been so long, so many years, and yet the wanting of it never lessened.

He swung away, trying to school his face back into some semblance of control. This was no time for Derek’s fucking issues to make an appearance, this was _not_ about him-

“Derek,” the Sheriff’s voice was rough, and very near, and then he, too, was engulfed in a Dad hug. “Thank God you’re both all right.” Stiles was there, a warm presence on his other side, pressed close.

Derek couldn’t keep the tears out of his eyes then, and it was ridiculous, that suddenly he was frightened all over again, but God. It all could have gone so wrong. If Tyrone had found the stash of epi-pens when he’d searched Stiles, if he’d clawed Stiles’ throat instead of his shoulder, if the betas had decided to fight instead of run.

“We’re all right,” Stiles said, his voice thin and strained. “We’re okay now. It’s all okay now.” The three of them stood together, swaying a little, with the crisp Montana air all around them, clear as a bell.

 

 

When they finally broke apart with a great deal of hard blinking and throat clearing, Noah surveyed the stone walls of the cabin with open mouthed approval. “Holy cow, Derek,” he said. “This place is amazing.”

Stiles was smiling, soft and proud. “Derek Hale, mountain man.”

“Come inside,” Derek said, and waved them both in, embarrassed, as always, by praise.

Noah clapped him on the shoulder once, nodded and then strolled ahead of Derek, head turning as he took it all in.

 

 

Derek found himself fiddling with things in the kitchen while Stiles recounted what had happened for the Sheriff. He didn’t want to watch the reactions, didn’t want to think again about how things might have been different if Derek had listened sooner, had taken Stiles and his wards seriously, if they had run for the barn the minute they’d had a chance.

He especially didn’t want to see any blame in the Sheriff’s eyes.

There was silence once Stiles had covered the whole and then I called and threatened the Alpha _and that’s it, that’s everything, definitely Derek and I did not have sex almost straight after_. Okay, so he didn’t say that last part but Derek was pretty sure the Sheriff guessed anyway.

“Okay,” Noah finally said.

For one second Derek was honestly expecting some kind of lecture. Then he glanced up, and the expression on the older man’s face was pure Stiles, thinking hard, weighing up everything.

“So legally we just need to figure out if there’s anything linking you to Tyrone Hellyer. Right now he’d be a possible missing person, but. If his body is ever found, depending on forensic evidence he could conceivably be investigated as a suspected murder victim, so we need to know if he’s been noticed in Montana. As far as the Council goes you need to submit that report and make sure you’re okay with them, no matter what the Hellyer pack tries next.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Yeah. About that.”

Derek froze. That was the tone Stiles used when he’d left out something huge. Like, _oh Peter offered me the bite_ , or, _oh I maybe have screaming nightmares about Donovan’s death_.

“I got, um. A letter from the Council. An offer. They, uh. I think they’ll be pretty sympathetic to my situation.”

“A letter?” Noah asked. “Stiles-”

“No, it’s good news, actually. I was trying to figure out how I felt about it, before I told you guys.”

“What did it say?”

He cleared his throat and sent a tentative look in Derek’s direction. “Well, it’s like, maybe there’s one good thing to come out of all of this? I’m a former Emissary, a human with extensive knowledge of packs and law and magic. There’s three of us in the entire continental US. A commodity that rare is highly prized. Wanna know what role I’ve been approached to fill?”

He glanced between them, then dropped his bombshell with a small, wry smile. “To represent the Balance.”

Derek took a sharp breath, shocked. That was a position of incredible power.

Noah swung his gaze toward Derek. “You know what this is? What it means?”

“Uh,” Derek said, voice hoarse. “Well, If Stiles accepted, it’s a little like being appointed to the Supreme Court in the supernatural world. Though, actually, they have more power than that. They can, uh. Order investigations as well as adjudicate disputes and hand down sentences.”

Stiles sent him a nervous, flickering glance, then refocused on his father to explain.

“If there’s going to be any kind of dispute or trial amongst the supernatural, I’ll be the fucking judge, jury and executioner. If I accept their offer, I could have every pack on the Pacific coast declare the Hellyer pack an enemy. Taking that into account, I think one death is a pretty lenient sentence, actually.”

Noah’s eyebrows were up to his hairline by now. “Huh.”

“So I’m pretty confident the Council will be on my side about this.”

Noah nodded, once. “I’d like to read the letter. And I’ll get my gear out of the car-”

“I’ll get it,” Derek volunteered.

Noah sent him a soft, amused smile, and just dug in his pocket for the keys. “Okay, Derek, thank you. Everything that’s in the trunk, please.”

Derek caught the keys in one hand and tried not to be too obvious about how much he loved the familiarity of this. His and Scott’s relationship had always been difficult, but only a few months into dating Stiles, he and the Sheriff had found an easy rhythm of understated affection and in-jokes that only someone who loved Stiles would understand.

There was a duffel bag in the trunk, and what looked like poster boards. Huh. This was going to be interesting.

When he stepped back inside he took one look at the parchment letter the Sheriff was reading and decided to let them talk it out without Derek’s presence. He was already reeling from the implications of it all, and low-key freaking out about what it meant for Stiles continuing to live in Montana, and what, exactly, last night had meant. No need to do it in front of the Sheriff. “Going to make a grocery run,” he called, snagging his keys.

Stiles glanced up immediately, and for a moment Derek felt completely naked, like the younger man could read every thought in his head. Then he nodded. “Okay. Maybe keep an ear out to see if anyone is talking about your ‘friends’ that dropped in.”

“Will do.”

 


	28. Chapter 28

 

By the time he came back from town the living room had been transformed into something more like a war room.

There were giant sticky notes all over the windows, covering the runes Stiles had drawn only the day before. Derek skimmed over them with a glance:

TYRONE

-left any evidence linking to SS or DH

-body? → evidence of allergic reaction? How long would it last, forensically?

-credit card activity

-dispose of injectors, check barn for any forensic evidence

-SS phone records?

 

 

HELLYER PACK

-possible retaliation

-betas (find them)

 

 

COUNCIL

-call asap, recommend damage control re: body/anaphylaxis story (Priority #1 to control burial/cremation if poss, or possibly retrieve body if dumped)

-report (detail previous interactions inc previous poisoning, Derek to corroborate statement re motive?)

-accept offer now or wait?

 

 

MONTANA SOURCE?

-check TH bank activity to identify if possible (BHSD)

-blackmail?

- ~~BH law enf call to establish stalker story~~? or leave in reserve

 

 

Derek got dizzy just skimming it, and turned his eyes resolutely away. It was all a bit stunning, seeing it laid out like that. But he could see the sense in it – it was just a little shocking to see Noah’s hand in it, too, actively trying to subvert the law enforcement angle.

But then, what choice did they have? Stiles was caught up in something that couldn’t be contained by human law enforcement, and so the only avenues open to him were also, therefore, outside the law.

It dawned on him, staring at those post-it notes, that he was looking at a system that must have been extremely hard-won for Stiles and his father, once the Oath had taken hold of Stiles. But somehow they had met in the middle, set their priorities, and constructed something that worked for them. The structure of the notes, the arrows and colours used all told him they’d done this many times before.

“Shopping done?” Stiles asked, Sharpie still poised in his hand.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Yeah, and nobody mentioned any new visitors or friends, not even your Dad.”

Stiles let out a long, slow breath. “Maybe we got lucky,” he said, sounding sceptical.

Derek shrugged. “We’re on the southern side of town. It’s possible Tyrone only went as far into Baden as the first crossroad before he turned off. Unless his car was really distinctive, there’d be no particular reason for someone to remember him.”

“Good point,” Stiles said, and turned back to Tyrone’s post-it. He wrote _Car?_ on it.

Noah said, from the couch, “Can the Council get their hands on bank records, you think?”

Stiles looked at him sharply. The Sheriff shrugged, “The less my department is involved, the better, if the worst happens and this becomes a homicide investigation. But if the Council habitually runs investigations of their own, my guess is they have ways of getting those kinds of records. If we can see his bank records, we’d know if he hired a car, where he stopped for gas, when they stayed in a motel. We can’t do much more without knowing those things.”

Stiles nodded slowly. “I’ll ask,” he said.

“And you have to figure out if it’s better or worse for you if the Hellyer pack knows about your offer to join the Council,” Noah adds.

Now it was Derek’s turn to shoot a sharp glance at Stiles. “You’ve decided?” He hadn’t meant to invoke it, but the unilateral decision Stiles had made to become Emissary was suddenly just _there_ , like another person in the room.

Stiles eyes widened, a hand shooting up, palm out, _wait_. _“No,_ not- I mean, I haven’t talked to you yet. I _wouldn’t-_ ” he broke off, bit his lip and visibly gathered himself together. “What I was getting at is that the offer itself is a card we could play.”

Derek forced himself to breathe evenly. He could feel Noah watching them both closely and thought with grim amusement that they’d picked a fine time to decide that they needed to talk things through more. “Right yeah, of course.”

He hesitated, then added, “Maybe ask the Council how they’d like to control that information. If a threat’s going to be made against the Hellyer pack it would work better coming direct from them – it’s a weight even an Alpha wouldn’t ignore unless they’ve completely lost their mind.” He shrugged, “Also, it’s possible that you spreading the news around before you’ve actually accepted would cause offence.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, brows rising, “that would be a dumb thing to do, considering.”

He turned back and surveyed the windows again, one after the other. “I think,” he finally said, “I really need to call the Council now. Then we’ll see what we see.”

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys - sorry for the break! I haven't forgotten or abandoned this fic. I'm just struggling to get the ending right. also work and family life is kind of v busy right now. but i WILL finish

 

Derek had thought he would disappear into another room or something, but Stiles just settled himself at the kitchen table, notepad at his side and war-room notes in his eyeline.  He made some extra notes, glancing up at the windows and down again, and Derek exchanged a long glance with Noah.

Then he made coffee.

By the time he settled a steaming mug at Stiles’ elbow, the younger man seemed ready.

Derek sat at his right, Noah at his left. Stiles nodded to himself once, and dialled.

The voice at the other end of the line – Candida – seemed a little bemused at the firmly businesslike nature of Stiles’ call, but sobered abruptly when Tyrone and the Permanent Solution were mentioned.

“I see.”

Stiles outlined their questions and concerns, namely: the body and the risk of it being discovered, getting eyes on Tyrone’s bank records to tie up any other loose ends, and, lastly, whether this would impact the offer from the Council.

“Absolutely not,” the voice said immediately. “You have been recommended and endorsed by an impressive number of interested parties, Mr Stilinski, _including_ someone closely linked to the Hellyer pack. We are well aware of the past history there, and your conduct has already been reviewed and found to be within pack law. Unless the version you’ve just told me is wildly untrue, nothing you’ve done in the past few days will change that assessment.”

He saw Stiles take a quick breath, clearly surprised at her certainty. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Uh. If you’re sure, I just, I thought you might need to go back and talk to the Council-”

“No, Mr Stilinski,” she said, voice firm. “Your time as Emissary of the McCall pack has been heavily scrutinised, and the Council was unanimous in its endorsement of the offer. Now, I _will_ need to reach out to a few people about the news you’ve given me today, about containing the situation, and obtaining the bank details. But the Council’s position on your offer remains the same, Mr Stilinski.”

“Okay.” Stiles swallowed, then said. “About the offer. I, uh. I’m sorry that I’m not quite ready to give an answer-”

“That’s fine, she said. “Traditionally you aren’t required to supply an answer until the third full moon after receipt of the letter. We understand it’s that it’s a big decision.”

Derek watched Stiles let out a long, slow breath of relief. “And if I have some, follow-up questions about the… details?”

“I am always happy to answer any questions, Mr Stilinski.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Okay. I’ll, uh, call again. Soon.”

Derek could tell immediately that something was wrong when Stiles hung up. Of course, that didn’t mean he knew _what_ , specifically, was wrong. Sometimes loving Stiles felt like being fluent in another language, but knowing nothing about the culture of a place. He recognised the words, but he didn’t know what it _meant_.

Noah, too, could tell something was wrong. He was watching Stiles carefully, but when he met Derek’s eyes, he didn’t look too worried.  “Well,” he said. “Nothing more to do, right now. Just wait for answers.”

Derek nodded, dissatisfied at having nothing to do.

“Feel like telling me about the construction happening out front?” He asked, with a nod to the half-finished deck.

“Yeah, of course,” Derek said. He led the Sheriff out through the living room, but let his hand rest briefly on Stiles’ shoulder as he passed. He barely heard the soft sigh, but he felt it under his fingers.

 

 

 

Of course, talking about the deck inevitably led to doing.

It was a relief, really, to be using his hands again. Derek spent time retrieving the thick planks from where he’d stored them in case of rain, and ran into Stiles cleaning up the mess in the barn. They watched one another for a moment, then Stiles smiled faintly and said, “Just don’t let Dad use any power tools. The Stilinski men are _not_ handy. Measuring, maybe. Holding the other end of something. Handing out nails.”

“Believe me, I remember,” Derek said, and he, too, smiled. Then he hesitated. “Are you …okay?”

Stiles nodded, which was akin to Stiles breathing. Then he said, more diffidently, “Just. Didn’t enjoy the reminder about big decisions on the horizon. Lots to think about – lots to talk about,” he added, raising his eyes to Derek’s.

“Yeah,” Derek said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry about, uh, jumping to concl-”

‘No,” Stiles said, flat. “No apology from you on that. Reaping, sowing, all of that.”

Derek stepped in a little closer, right inside Stiles’ personal space. “Hey,” he said, very soft.

Stiles kept his eyes on the floor, but the smile that came over his face was soft and sweet. “Yeah?”

“We’re okay,” Derek said. It was more a statement of belief than of certainty, but. “We’re going to be okay.”

Stiles took a long breath, then let it out again. “Yeah we are,” Stiles said, and leaned in to press his forehead against Derek’s shoulder.  Derek brought a hand up to cup the back of his neck and breathed in the scent of Stiles’ hair. “I’m going to make fucking sure of it.”

 

 

 

The planks were down by the end of the day. Noah seemed to enjoy being a part of the whole thing, steadying one end as Derek nailed the planks into place.

“This is going to be a great spot,” he commented, eyes on the view. “For the three months of the year you’re not freezing to death,” he added, grinning.

Derek grunted. “No doubt Stiles will have some ideas about how to make it useful. It was his idea in the first place.”

“That right?” Noah said, brows up.

“First thing he said when he got here.” A small smile touched his mouth, remembering, and thinking back to how much had changed since then. Derek shrugged. “I’d been thinking about it before that, but.”

Noah eyed him.

“It’s easier with another set of hands,” Derek finished, blushing.

“Uh huh.”

Of course at that moment Stiles stepped through the doors onto the boards and clapped his hands, “Perfect! My vision brought to life.”

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys - sorry! RL has been kicking my butt. I am still here tho

                                                                                                                                                                               

They ate on the deck that night, Derek enjoying the food and conversation, but also casting his eyes skyward, wondering what kind of roof he could put over the deck that wouldn’t interfere with the view or the light he loved streaming inside the house.

They talked quietly between the three of them, covering old familiar ground from years ago – it didn’t escape Derek that Stiles and his father were carefully avoiding mentioning the pack if at all possible. He appreciated the thought, but it wasn’t necessary, and so he deliberately began to ask about Isaac’s job at the nursery, about whether Lydia ever came home for visits.

It was worth the occasional mention of Scott to see Stiles loosen up ever so slightly.

 

 

 

Noah took himself off to bed and Stiles disappeared into the shower, leaving Derek to sketch out a couple of ideas and make notes on questions he wants to ask the builder who had advised him on the deck in the first place.

After a while he realized the sound of the shower stopped quite some time ago and he got up to look for Stiles. The younger man sat on the edge of the newly-finished deck, one leg dangling over the edge, the other knee drawn up so he could rest his chin on it. He didn’t look up when Derek stepped through the sliding door and closed it behind him.

“All right,” Derek asked, and he jumped down from the deck, leaning his butt against the edge, at Stiles’ side. He slid his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

There was a long, shaky inhale before Stiles said, “Sure.”

Derek didn’t fight him on it. He tilted his head toward Stiles, but kept his eyes pointed mostly forward. Then he waited.

“I mean, what right do _I_ have to sit in judgement over anybody?” Stiles burst out without warning. “I’ve done… I mean, I’ve done seriously shady things, Derek. You don’t even _know_ half of the things I’ve done.”

Derek gave himself a second to process the sudden introduction of this topic, then said, “But you did them in defence of your pack or yourself. You were never the aggressor.”

Stiles shot him a look. “Come _on,_ Derek. That’s not exactly justification for anything.  I mean. The way some of those packs operate, it wouldn’t be hard to provoke them into starting something just so you could finish it.”

“But _did_ you?”

He looked away.

Derek bit back a smile. Stiles was always so quick to blame himself.

“Systems are rarely perfect, Stiles. You know that. I’d guess that if you did bend the rules at all, they’re perfectly aware of that, and are comfortable with it. I mean, cops have powers they can abuse, but the good ones don’t, right?”

Stiles was quiet for a while. Derek recognized the shift in his mood, contemplative rather than emotional. Then he said, “It’s not a court system like we’d recognize.”

Derek nodded. He knew all of this, his mother had been insistent that her children understand the history of pack law and how it was made and enforced. But Stiles did better talking things through. That much, Derek remembered from their old life in Beacon Hills.

“It’s actually based on old ecclesiastical courts. Like, Holy Roman Empire era,” Stiles added. A faintly amazed smile touched his mouth. “Wild, huh?”

“Wolf customs are older than almost any country you can name,” Derek said quietly.

Stiles turned to watch him. “You haven’t said anything about this.”

Derek raised his brows. “It’s not my decision to make.”

Stiles’ face clouded. “Yeah, but. You must have opinions. Thoughts.”

Derek was oddly wrongfooted by the open invitation to speak his mind. Then Stiles added casually, “I mean, this impacts you, too. It could draw attention to us.”

Us. Draw attention to _us_.  Derek stared.

He could feel his breath coming faster, skin prickling hot. “Us?” he heard himself say faintly. He sagged against the deck, the timber digging into his hip.

Stiles turned, letting his cheek rest on his knee. “Huh?” Then he caught the expression on Derek’s face and straightened with a jolt. “Der?”

“You,” Derek said, “You never – you hadn’t said-”

Light was slowly dawning on Stiles’ face. “What, did you think I was just hanging around until I got a better offer? Didn’t we _just_ talk about this?”

Derek swallowed. “I don’t know.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I didn’t- I know being here was helping you make the transition from Emissary but. You never said.” He forces air into his lungs and then says in a rush, “You never said it was permanent.”

Stiles’ mouth was hanging open. “Derek, what the _fuck?_ I think I’ve been pretty brazen. Or did you miss the part where I _moved states_ to settle into the tiny town that holds about seventy thousand head of cattle and absolutely nothing else of any fucking interest to me except for, oh yeah, that’s right, YOU!”

“But that doesn’t mean-”

“I _told_ you I loved you Derek. I mean, sure it was in the heat of the- shit,” Stiles said. “Wait, shit, lemme just.” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “Okay. Yelling is not helping. And obviously we still need to work on our communicating, so.” He raised a hand, wait. Swallowed. Then shuffled around so he was sitting, crossed-legged and they were facing one another. He lifted his eyes to Derek’s. “I am committed to you. Like, for life. It’s not that I’ve fallen in love with you again, that’s not right. I absolutely never stopped, not in all the time we were apart.”

Derek sat down abruptly. Stiles swallowed again, then licked his lips. “I did things, I said things, hell, I _thought_ a lot of things while you were gone. Some of them were in anger, some of them in self-punishment, to be honest I think some of them were idiotic revenge that you were never even going to know about but somehow they made sense in my head. But never. Derek, I swear to you, _never_ did my heart change.”

Mouth dry, Derek said, “You never said anything.”

Stiles spread his hands helplessly. “I mean, you saw me, Derek. When I first got here, I - I was a mess. I was struggling to process normal emotions, hell, I was having a hard time just enjoying _food_ without guilt and self-loathing. How could I tell you that I loved you and have any hope you’d believe me? _I_ wouldn’t have believed me. I was barely holding _myself_ together, let alone a relationship.”

Derek just sat there, breathing through it.

“Look,” Stiles said, “I know this is bringing up old baggage. Obviously. Big decision, job offer that could change our lives, etc. but I swear to you, I won’t ever make that same mistake again. This is our decision to make, okay? I’m telling you I want your input, I want to know what you’re thinking, what you’re worried about. We fucked it up last time – _I_ fucked it up, mostly – and this time we are going to get it right.”

 


End file.
